


Lady Sansa of House Lannister

by K_R_Closson, tasalmalin



Series: The North Remembers [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Infidelity, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasalmalin/pseuds/tasalmalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sansa and Theon flee Winterfell, they encounter someone who can give Sansa a chance to start over. Sansa has to determine what she can change and what she has to accept to get a future she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> General Warnings: This story will make reference to events in the Game of Thrones canon. This includes sexual assault, torture, violence and alcoholism. These references will be less explicit than the show itself. There are also references to suicidal thoughts. Sansa's relationship with Tyrion is dubiously consensual, because of her age and the political situation, but it isn't violent. Each chapter will have its own warnings.
> 
> Chapter 1 Warnings: Non-explicit references to the violence and sexual assault Sansa experienced with Ramsay at Winterfell. Suicidal thoughts.

Sansa clasps Theon’s hand in hers and has time for a deep breath before they jump from Winterfell’s walls. It’s not a long fall, but it’s long enough for her to have time to wonder if the drop will kill them. It’s not the worst possible outcome. The worst that could happen is the fall could hurt her ankle or her leg, keep her from walking, keep her trapped until Ramsay finds her.

She drops into a snowbank, the impact knocking the breath out of her, and she has to bite back a shriek when the snow drops down her collar and melts against her neck.

She stands up, shakes out her legs, then her arms, making sure everything’s in working order.

“Theon?” She asks, voice barely above a whisper.

She lost her grip when they hit, and they need to get moving. If he doesn’t answer or he’s hurt then she’s leaving without him. She won’t let Ramsay get his hands on her again. She pats her cloak, relieved that the knife she hid is still there. She’s escaping or she’s dying. Those are the only two options.

“Theon?” She calls again.

The snow next to her stirs and then he bursts forth like a great fish emerging from the water. His eyes are wide, still not quite lucid, but she grabs his hand and drags him forward. If they head north they’ll reach a small village where they can get shelter or, even better, horses. All they need is to make it to Castle Black. Jon will protect her.

They make it out of sight of Winterfell before they stop running, and her legs are exhausted from both the unusual exertion and the hard work of moving through snow. She stumbles and Theon helps her up, his fingers pressing into bruises that haven’t yet healed.

She hisses and yanks her arm back and he ducks his head, embarrassed.

“We don’t have time for that,” Sansa says. “We need to find food, horses, and the King’s Road. We can’t be too close to it or we’ll be easy to track.”

Theon casts a pointed look at the tracks they’re leaving behind them in the snow.

It’s a fair point.

“Horses and then we’ll ride the King’s Road as fast as they’ll carry us.”

It’s not a great plan, but it’s the only one they’ve got. She has no friends further south, and any friends she might have had at Winterfell are dead or too scared to help. Jon is her only option. Their only option.

She casts a glance at Theon and urges them along faster. She doesn’t know how long Theon has been a captive of the Boltons, but she knows she’ll hold up just as poorly to captivity as he has. She’s not going to let Ramsay break her.

She can’t help but wonder how she escaped Joffrey only to end up with a man possibly worse than he had been. Is there something about her that people want to hurt? First Joffrey, then Cersei, Petyr, Aunt Lysa… and now Ramsay.

Maybe Arya had it right all along, learning to fight so no one could hurt her.

But Arya is missing, maybe dead, and Robb knew how to fight and look how well that turned out. She wonders if she can run far enough north that no one in the Seven Kingdoms can reach her.

She’s getting ahead of herself. They have to escape Ramsay and his hounds, and they need to survive the trek to the wall. The wind chooses this moment to whip through the trees, bits of snow and ice stinging her cheeks as they’re carried by. She wraps her cloak tighter around herself and continues on.

“At least we avoided the field of bodies,” Sansa says, the wind picking up her words and pushing them forward.

Theon grunts in reply.

Sansa decides to conserve her energy and focus on moving forward.

Her nose is frozen and her fingers are stiff by the time the sky begins to darken. She thought they would’ve found help by now, and she’s not sure they can survive in the woods at night. She looks over at Theon to see if he shares her fears, but he’s hugging himself, mumbling under his breath as he stumbles forward, clearing a path for her to follow.

He pulls up short, and she almost crashes into him, ears straining to pick up on what’s alarmed him. It’s faint, difficult to hear over the creaking of the trees, but it’s the neighing of a horse. Even if there’s just one, it’s better than making their way on foot.

Sansa slips her stolen knife into her hand, her only possession beyond the clothes she’s wearing, and they adjust their path towards the sound of the animal, making an effort to be quiet. If the horse is alone, they don’t want to spook it. If it has a rider, they don’t want to alarm him.

Either way, they’re getting that horse.

Sansa’s stomach growls loudly, and she almost hopes there is a rider, because he’ll probably have supplies, except neither she nor Theon is in shape to be taking on any one. She wonders if perhaps she should give him the knife, but she’s seen the way his hands shake when he’s serving meals or caring for the horses in the stable, and besides, if only one of them can have a weapon, she wants it to be her.

They get close enough to see the horse, and the cloaked figure at its side. The horse is as white as the snow, the cloak as black as the trees. They are fortunate the horse is restless, because the two blend into the nature around them all too well.

Sansa nudges Theon one direction and she goes the other. They at least have the advantage of numbers, and perhaps they can surprise and overwhelm the rider. It probably means sentencing the rider to death--the weather in the North is unforgiving--but watching Theon push Myranda off the wall has clarified one thing for her.

She is going to survive no matter the cost to anyone else.

She and Theon are now on opposite sides of cloaked figure and she motions Theon to approach. She’ll wait until Theon’s engaged the figure and then she’ll charge in. She adjusts her grip on the knife. Like stabbing a bear steak or punching her needle through a tough bit of leather. Thousands of men have died in the War of the Five Kings. It can’t be that hard to kill someone.

Right?

Theon stumbles forward, and she winces at the unintimidating figure he cuts, then winces again when he pulls up completely short.

That was not the plan.

The cloaked figure pushes back the hood, long dark hair spilling out, and Sansa realizes their cloaked figure is a woman.

“Are you lost?” The woman asks, her voice soft, melodic, and Theon looks trapped between running away and shuffling closer.

They get this far, and Theon gets distracted by a woman. If they were in any other situation, Sansa might find it amusing, but since their lives are actually at stake here, all she can muster is annoyance.

And then Theon looks past the cloaked woman to Sansa and annoyance turns to anger, because the woman follows Theon’s gaze and she smiles when she sees Sansa and beckons her closer.

“Not lost,” the woman says. “Running away, perhaps? Young love?”

Both Sansa and Theon visibly recoil, enough that the woman raises her eyebrows.

“Perhaps not,” she says, “but running from something.”

“We don’t have much time,” Sansa says. “We need your horse.”

Her knife is tucked back safely under her cloak, a last chance at a surprise attack, and she keeps a hand on it, ready to strike if she needs to. But her father taught her to negotiate first, then resort to violence. It’s not as effective the other way around.

The woman tightens her grip on the horse’s reins. “I’m afraid I do as well. But -” the woman pauses, tilts her head to the side and _studies_ Sansa, enough that Sansa is thinking about making a run for it again. “Perhaps you are what I am seeking.”

Definitely time to run again. Theon can stay and stare soulfully into the woman’s eyes, Sansa is getting out of here.

“Wait!” the woman says, like she can sense the direction of Sansa’s thoughts. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I sensed something calling to me, some power.”

Right, because that’s not alarming at all. Sansa clutches her blade tightly enough it must be leaving marks in her fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps the cold is affecting you.”

“I am Melisandre,” the woman says. “Priestess to the Lord of Light. I believe he has directed me here.”

Marvelous. A religious fanatic.

Theon, curse him, chooses that moment to remember how to speak, and mumbles his way through a reciprocal introduction. Naturally, his words are clear when he looks to her and says, “Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Technically it’s Bolton, now, but Sansa has every intention of leaving that name behind her, and anyway, they have bigger concerns.

Now they’re going to have to kill the woman. Or at least hurt her enough that she can’t go running to Winterfell to tell Ramsay where they’re going. Is it wrong to kill a priestess of a god you don’t believe in?

“Stark? Daughter of Ned Stark?”

Daughter of a traitor to the crown. The response is on the tip of her tongue before she remembers she’s in the North now. Here her father is a hero, a martyr, though opinions are mixed on his children, and Sansa hadn’t even considered that this name isn’t safe for her either.

“I served Stannis Baratheon, the One True King of Westeros. Your father was loyal to him as well.”

“And now they’re both dead,” Sansa says. She would rather not meet the same fate.

“What if I told you I could change that?”

“I don’t think resurrecting the dead is a good idea. We bury our dead for a reason.” Or burn them.

“Not resurrection. The Lord of Light gives us what we need most, and what we need now is a second chance, not just at life, but at victory. We need King Stannis to win the war, and he needs your father in order to do it.”

“They’re both dead,” Sansa says because apparently that needs to be repeated. “The war is lost. The Lannisters have taken everything that matters, and the North is in ruins.”

“Yes. The North is in ruins and winter is coming.”

Sansa bristles at hearing an outsider speak the words of her family.

“There is no power in the North that can stop it now,” Melisandre says. “Which is why you must go back and change things.”

“Go back?” Sansa shakes her head. “I’m not going back to Winterfell. You can’t make me.”

Melisandre’s eyebrows climb up and Sansa looks down to see that her knife is out and pointed at the other woman.

Oh.

“Back in time,” Melisandre corrects. “I have the power to do it, and you have the power to warn your father to leave the capital in time to join his banner to that of King Stannis. With the North behind him, he will be unstoppable. He will turn back the winter.”

“Time travel?” That’s something out of Bran’s stories, the stupid ones with giants and gnomes and all sorts of things that are impossible. “And what do you mean, I have the power?” If Sansa had any sort of power her life would be very different than it is now.

Melisandre looks around at the snow piling up around them. She looks at Theon’s ragged clothes and the knife Sansa’s desperately clinging to. “Is your life so good now that you won’t have faith in what I’m offering you?”

“Nothing anyone has offered me recently has been any good for me,” Sansa says.

“This is different,” Melisandre says. “If winter breaches the wall then all of Westeros is doomed. We must stop it.”

“But why me?”

“Death has power, and you have been touched by death.”

Sansa is not impressed.

“Besides, I cannot perform this spell on myself. And even if I could, why would your father heed my counsel?”

“And you think he’ll listen to me?”

Melisandre smiles. “You are a bright, brave girl, and I think you can do anything you dedicate yourself to.”

The woman is crazy. Mother always used to say that religion touched people differently. In the North, they were private about their trips to the godswood. Speaking of your prayers caused them not to come true. There was no playing allowed amongst the great trees, only stillness and reflection. It’s why the godswood came to be her sanctuary in the capitol.

She never dared to go to it when she came back to Winterfell, afraid Ramsay would destroy her sanctuary as effortlessly as he destroyed her childhood home, and her. She wanted one thing in Winterfell left untouched by him and that meant untouched by her as well.

And then he married her there. She doesn’t pray much anymore. The gods aren’t listening. 

A hound’s howl carries over the wind, and Sansa goes still, body locking up in fear.

“I don’t care about your mission,” she says, “or your power. I need your horse, and I will get it from you, one way or another.”

“It’s a long road,” Melisandre says, “with an uncertain destination. I can send you somewhere they cannot possibly follow you.”

It’s tempting. She wants to believe. Badly enough that she knows it’s ill-advised.

“If the spell fails, you may have my horse,” Melisandre says, and that seals the deal.

“Fine,” Sansa says. “Send me back.”

“You will need an anchor, to be sure you return to the correct moment. Was the death of your father a significant moment for you?”

Sansa already regrets listening to this woman. She thinks her glare is answer enough.

“Yes… father, family, House, all lost with one swing of a sword. That will be a good anchor. I’ll put as much power into the spell as I can, to give you a bit of… leeway. It could be as little as a few seconds, or as much as a few weeks.”

“What good will a few seconds do me?” Sansa asks.

Melisandre gives her a tragic and mysterious look, and doesn’t answer.

“Fine,” Sansa says, gritting her teeth. “Any other difficulties you’ve conveniently forgotten to mention?”

“Actually,” Melisandre says, “magic demands sacrifice.” She glances at Theon meaningfully.

Sansa follows her look. Theon is huddled next to the horse as if it can keep him warm, desperate and pathetic.

She has no doubt that ‘sacrifice’ means death. Does she have it in her to kill this man?

He burned Winterfell, slaughtered the people they both grew up with. Her family took him in, raised him as their own, never hurt him, and he repaid that with betrayal.

She hands her knife to Melisandre blade first.

If this works, Theon will pay for his betrayal by making it right.

If it doesn’t, he would only slow her down, and maybe the fresh blood will distract the hounds from her scent long enough for her to put some distance between herself and them.

“Remember,” Melisandre says, “Think on the day your family died. Think to when you want to go. And also remember this: you must stop the winter.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to major canonical character death, Sansa's trauma, past suicidal thoughts.

The air is warm. Everything is silent, no wind in the trees, no snow falling from the high branches.

Sansa doesn’t open her eyes.

She remembers silence, as the laughing, cheering crowd held its breath.

In that silence, she could hear the sing of the blade through the air, the sickening wet sound as it bit into her father’s neck, the thud of his head on the ground.

Joffrey, giggling in her ear as he checked she was watching.

She remembers when that was the worst day of her life.

“My dear? Are you awake?”

Sansa’s eyes fly open. The man across from her is watching her with deep concern and pity. She knows this man, not well, but she has a good memory for faces.

“L-lord Varys?” Her voice rasps painfully in her throat.

He hands her a glass, which she accepts gratefully.

And promptly almost spits the liquid back out. If it’s wine, it’s gone bad, and been salted besides.

“It’s medicine of a sort,” he says, correctly interpreting the look on her face. “You’ve been ill.”

“Ill?” She doesn’t remember any significant illnesses during her time at King’s Landing.

“You’ve been asleep a fortnight,” he says.

Sansa sits bolt upright, and almost faints as all the blood rushes from her head.

“Easy, now,” Lord Varys says, offering her a steadying hand. “Don’t rush yourself.”

When her head stops spinning, Sansa settles back against the pillows he generously arranges for her. “And… you’ve been sitting with me?” She doesn’t recall anything about her interactions with Lord Varys that would explain such an action.

“Er, no,” he says. “Not that everyone hasn’t been very concerned about you. But the Maester’s apprentice who has been sitting with you alerted me to the fact that you were stirring, and he thought you might awaken soon.”

Sansa digests that. “It’s… kind of you to be here?”

He gives her a look of such profound sadness that she very much wants to curl up into the pillows and disappear. “I’m afraid I have some… bad news.”

Sansa wants to be sick. The concoction she just drank churns in her stomach. She remembers the last time Lord Varys said those words to her, and she can only be grateful that the buzzing in her ears drowns out having to hear it a second time.

This isn’t the day of her father’s execution. This is the day she learned that her mother and brother had been killed, stabbed in the back at a wedding among supposed friends.

She starts to laugh. Lord Varys is watching her with increasing concern, but she can’t seem to stop herself. Melisandre’s spell worked, in a way. Her father may have been the first, but for Sansa Stark, this was the day her family truly died.

She laughs until she cries. Her shoulders don’t shake, and no sound escapes her lips.

Just as Ramsay taught her.

The door opening is a welcome distraction from her despair--until Tyrion Lannister walks in.

He looks tense and unhappy, and cringes when he sees her tears. “I’m… I’m pleased to see you well,” he says, then looks like he wants to kick himself for his tactlessness. “I mean, less comatose.”

That isn’t much better.

He grimaces, the scar standing out vividly on his face. “Obviously, you’ve heard. I wanted you to hear it from…” he seems to notice Lord Varys for the first time “...a friend. Or, a non-actively hostile party. But I see Lord Varys has anticipated me.”

Lord Varys gives a dignified sort of nod.

“Well, then. I’ll just… be on my way.” He goes to the door, but doesn’t walk through it. “And. Well. I suppose… I wanted to say… that I’m sorry. For your loss.”

“Traitors to the crown,” she says automatically, hating him for intruding on her grief. She wants to throw a pillow at him. And possibly the table. Was he lurking outside her room, waiting to spring the news on her? And Lord Varys, too, he…

No. Lord Varys has never been anything but kind to her, and broke the news as gently as such news can be broken. He is not malicious.

And, she realizes, neither is Lord Tyrion. He is not here to gloat, or remind her of her disgrace, the daughter and sister of traitors. He was the only one to step in on her behalf, before, deflecting the worst of Joffrey’s abuses and offering a smile and a kind word at times.

He doesn’t belong in the same category as the Joffreys, Cerseis, and Ramsays of the world. And he’s no Petyr Baelish, pretending kindness only to sell her to the highest bidder.

He is also, she abruptly remembers, her husband.

Maybe?

Lord Tyrion interprets her silence as rejection, and gives her a brief, pained smile before turning to go.

“Wait.” She flushes, but there really isn’t a tactful way to ask this sort of question. Hopefully she can pass it off as disorientation due to her long illness. “Are… are we married?”

Lord Varys coughs.

Lord Tyrion gives her a look that’s difficult to interpret, but she’s leaning towards horrified. “What exactly do you think of me? No, on second thought, don’t answer that, please. I certainly didn’t… drag your unconscious body to the Sept, or-”

“Tyrion,” Lord Varys says mildly.

He stops talking mid-word. “Our wedding has, of course, been postponed, my lady,” he says, in a much more civil tone.

Sansa tries to think. The Lannisters have killed or hurt her entire family, directly or indirectly. Queen Cersei and King Joffrey have made her life hell. And Lord Tyrion is hardly the knight in shining armor she dreamed of in her girlhood. He is short and scarred, a drunkard and certainly no warrior.

But he is not a hateful sadist. He is no Joffrey, no Ramsay.

She forces a smile onto her face. “Thank you for coming to check on me, my lord. My lords.” She can’t very well ignore Lord Varys, that would hardly be polite. “Your kindness is… much appreciated.”

Neither of them seem to know quite what to say to that.

“Of course, my lady,” Tyrion says at last. “I… wish you a swift recovery. I’ll send someone to attend you.”

She can’t muster another smile, so she bows her head instead.

~*~

When the last maester finally leaves, Sansa curls up on the bed, hugging her knees to the point of pain. She doesn’t want to sleep. It’s a relatively recent development, subjectively speaking. The first time she lived through these events, she slept half the day away, and spent as much of the rest of it in the godswood as possible. All in the interest of avoiding Joffrey, the Queen, her husband; avoiding her whole life, really.

Ramsay changed that. During her imprisonment at Winterfell, she lay awake long into the night, staring at the same ceiling she’d slept under most of her life. And it wasn’t just that her bed was no longer a safe place for her.

Sansa pulls her legs in even tighter, taking comfort in this pain that she is in complete control of, that she can stop at any time. The bruises, the… damage, from Ramsay’s… attentions, it’s all gone now, this is a fresh, undamaged body. Gone everywhere but her memory, where it won’t ever leave her.

She forces herself not to dwell on that thought. Throughout all the long days she would sit by her window, looking out at the people bustling below and hating them for their ability to come and go, for their carefree lives. Perhaps she ought to have had some sympathy for them, with Ramsay as lord, but she needed her sympathy for herself. Because sometimes… sometimes she would wonder, if the window were just a little larger…

Well. She wasn’t completely devoid of choices.

One night, Ramsay was careless, and she stole a knife from his belt. She stared at it all day, turning it over and over in her hands, before rushing to the window and tossing it out, fast, before she could second-guess herself. He turned her room upside-down that night searching for it, and she took some small satisfaction at his failure to find it.

Of course, he beat her anyway, so it was short-lived.

That night, for the first time since she could remember, Sansa did not cry herself to sleep. She stared at the ceiling, eyes dry, and asked herself why she had thrown that knife away. What was the point? What was she living for?

Morning brought no enlightenment, only another, fiercer storm. The snow came more often and heavier every day, and it seemed too much trouble to brave the cold to get out of bed, trapped behind a locked door with nothing to do and no one expecting her.

“Winter is coming,” she said to no one. The lost words of a dead house.

But then she listened to her own words, sitting up and pushing the furs back impatiently. Winter _is_ coming. Her father believed it, she believed it, and she had only to look out the window to see the truth. Winter is coming, and there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

She was the last Stark, and she must endure.

That night, when Ramsay had come and gone, she found a position that didn’t press too much on her bruises and whispered her new mantra into the night. “Winter is coming, and there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.”

And her fortitude was rewarded, because she escaped, and the knife was waiting for her, snatched up in haste as Theon rushed her to the walls of the Keep, and freedom.

Of course, there’s no Stark at Winterfell now, and perhaps it’s selfish and she’s unworthy of the name, but she won’t willingly submit to Ramsay again. She will marry Tyrion Lannister, properly, and maybe, somehow, someday, she will see Winterfell again. If she pleases her husband, he might allow her to visit.

And deep in her heart, where she’s all but forgotten how to hope, she remembers Theon’s words to her. The words of a liar, traitor, madman, but oh so tempting nonetheless.

_They weren’t Bran and Rickon. I couldn’t find them. It was two farmboys._

She is still alone, most of her family is certainly dead, probably all, she will soon be married to someone she neither respects nor particularly likes. But in many ways her situation has improved, and that’s what she needs to focus on.

He is not Joffrey. He is not Ramsay.

Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

And tomorrow morning, she will wake and live another day.

~*~

Another day, another round of tests with the maesters. They haven’t a clue what caused her sudden collapse, and she can hardly tell them that it is likely some sort of magical backlash, so instead they conduct every test they can think of, then foist her off on a different maester, another apprentice.

It’s all very tedious, but it does give her time to sort out her grief in relative solitude. Joffrey stays well away from the sickrooms, and most of maesters seem barely aware that she is a living person and not a test subject.

Today is different, because Lord Tyrion appears after her (bland, weak) breakfast.

He fidgets in the doorway.

“Is there news, my lord?”

“Yes. You’ll be going back to your own rooms today.”

Sansa has no particular attachment to the guest suite she’s been relegated to since her father’s arrest, but it’s better than the sickroom, and she’ll have a chance at some real food.

She’s not sure why that necessitates a personal visit, though.

“Now?” she asks, when it appears that Lord Tyrion has nothing else to say.

“Er. You just need Grand Maester Pycelle’s approval.”

“I see.” Sansa does not see. Should she be flattered that the Grand Maester is taking time out of his busy schedule to see her personally? Offended that she’s been shuffled off to practically every junior maester in King’s Landing? And why is Lord Tyrion here?

“I thought to escort you, my lady,” he says. “You’ll be reporting to his office, rather than him coming to you, and I thought you might not know the way.”

There’s another knock on the door, and Sansa isn’t even really surprised to see Lord Varys step in.

He certainly doesn’t seem surprised to see Lord Tyrion.

Sansa gives up trying to understand what’s going on. They might tell her, but they probably won’t, and she needs to focus on the important issue: getting out of here. Joffrey won’t be deterred forever--frankly, she’s surprised that he’s stayed away this long--and she needs to be declared healthy so she can marry Tyrion.

“Shall we go, then, my lords?”

Lord Varys courteously takes her arm, though she is much recovered and rarely stumbles now, and Lord Tyrion leads the way, almost in the manner of a guard, not that Sansa has ever seen him wield a sword.

No, that’s not fair. By all accounts but Joffrey’s, he acquitted himself well in the Battle of the Blackwater, and was wounded honorably. And Joffrey’s opinion is less than nothing, in any context.

They eventually reach the Grand Maester’s office, where Sansa is annoyed to find that he is much more interested in Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion’s presence than hers. She is totally ignored for a good five minutes while the three men engage in a silent battle of wills.

She takes the opportunity to lean against the open window and take in the air. It’s been far too long since she felt a fresh breeze.

“Sit here then,” the Grand Maester finally says, sounding decidedly cross.

He checks her eyes and mouth and feels her forehead.

“I’d really like to conduct a full examination,” he says.

Lord Tyrion makes a rude noise.

“The girl’s done nothing but be tested for a week,” Lord Varys says. “If anyone were going to find something, they would have found it by now.”

“Well I haven’t been doing the testing,” the Grand Maester says testily. “And I’ve had quite enough of sudden, unexplained illnesses around here.”

“Oh?” Lord Tyrion asks, straightening from where he’s lounging against the door.

“Lord Arryn?” the Grand Maester reminds him. “He too suddenly fell into a coma, though he didn’t wake up. Ah, for the resilience of youth.”

Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion are exchanging troubled looks, so Sansa has once again missed something.

The Grand Maester gives her leg a comforting pat.

“And I think we’re done here,” Lord Tyrion says.

Lord Varys announces that he has some business with the Grand Maester, so it’s only polite for Sansa to give them privacy.

“I’ll escort you to your rooms,” Lord Tyrion offers.

She doesn’t really want his company, but that’s hardly the way to demonstrate (or inspire) devotion in her future husband, so she smiles and accepts his arm.

It doesn’t seem quite as awkward as she remembers, being escorted by someone so much shorter than herself.

“I don’t know if anyone’s told you-”

“Certainly not, as no one has told me anything,” Sansa interrupts, before she can think better of it.

Fortunately Lord Tyrion seems to find her disrespect amusing. “Yes, well, I felt I should tell you, now that you’re awake and well, that we’re to be married within the week.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. This is a good thing. “I understand. Will I need to make any of the arrangements?”

Lord Tyrion is looking at her like he’s never seen her before. She hopes he thinks she’s mysterious and sophisticated, but probably he thinks she’s still touched in the head from her prolonged illness. “No, I believe my father is handling everything.”

“Very good, then.”

~*~

The last few days before the wedding she spends wandering the palace, letting everyone see that she is alive and none the worse for wear. She also takes the opportunity to watch, and learn.

The main thing she learns is, it’s no wonder Margaery thought her a silly child, because there is so much she failed to see before. Even with her best efforts, she can’t see much beyond that there _is_ an intricate web of people and events wound about her. She can’t seem to discern any details, let alone begin to unravel it.

The one useful thing she learns is that, while Joffrey makes much of his authority as King and Cersei is almost as generous with her exercise of her own power (though what that is, exactly, now that she is no longer Queen or Queen Regent, is a mystery), it is Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, who is actually ruling here. And it is he who has arranged Sansa’s marriage, not Lord Tyrion. She thinks he might have mentioned it on their wedding night, but she had been so flustered and unhappy she hadn’t really been listening.

If only she knew what her next wedding night would be like, she might have paid more attention.

It doesn’t matter now. Cersei and Joffrey hate and torment her, but Lord Tywin is an unknown, so there is at least a possibility that he will not care enough to bother hating a girl so far beneath his notice and station.

She scoffs to herself at the likelihood of that. Her life has been one endless parade of pain and torment since her father’s arrest.

The day before the wedding, she doesn’t leave her room. It’s time for some serious planning. She needs to focus on what she is going to do, using the information that she has. She will need to have a proper wedding night. That’s obvious. She’s been preparing herself since the moment she learned their marriage hasn’t happened yet.

But she can only dwell on that for so long. She has her plan in place, and she will carry it out because she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she will do what she must.

There is nothing else she _needs_ to do; she is fed and warm, Joffrey is hearing petitions for the afternoon, and while her survival hinges on bearing a son and quickly, that will have to wait until after the wedding.

Perhaps there is time, then, to think of things she wants. Most are impossible, or impractical, and too painful to consider. Most.

Thoughts in order, she turns to where her handmaiden is half-heartedly tidying up.

“Shae,” she says. “I need to dress.”

“Has my lady forgotten? You dressed this morning,” Shae says, with a teasing smile.

Sansa isn’t equal to smiling back, not yet, but she is warmed by the gesture. She’s missed Shae, and touched by Shae’s genuine concern at her illness. The older girl is a bit unpolished, certainly, but she’s really come along under Sansa’s gentle guidance. And she has her own sort of wisdom, a wisdom Sansa could have used after she fled King’s Landing. Shae would never have been fooled by a snake like Petyr Baelish.

Of course, then she might have been exposed to Ramsay, and Sansa wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

“Something formal,” Sansa says, holding her arms out patiently while Shae unlaces her sleeves. Shae still seems ignorant of the most basic aspects of being a handmaiden, but she excels at styling hair, painting Sansa’s face, and choosing an outfit. And threatening people.

Privately, Sansa sometimes wonders if Shae isn’t a handmaiden at all, but a secret bodyguard. There was the Hound, sort of, for a time, but he’s gone now, and if it weren’t for Shae she would be entirely alone here. Well, Shae and Lord Tyrion. He has also made some effort to ease her burdens.

And very soon, she and her two maybe-allies will be one household.

“I want to look older,” Sansa says. “More adult.”

Shae gives her an odd look, but complies.

~*~

One doesn’t simply walk into the Office of the Hand of the King, she learns.

She learns this when a supercilious maester’s apprentice informs her as such, haughtily. He attempts to look down his nose at her, but given that his head barely reaches her shoulder, he doesn’t quite pull it off.

“If you truly have business with the Hand,” and his expression suggests that she couldn’t possibly, “you will have to make an appointment. Don’t you know anything?”

“I know that last time I wanted to see the Hand of the King, I waited for him to come home for dinner,” Sansa says, and sweeps by while he sputters.

Her bravado lasts until she catches sight of Lord Tywin, Head of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King. He’s just writing a letter, but somehow he manages to make even that look intimidating.

He must be aware of her presence, but he doesn’t acknowledge her in any way.

Not a dismissal, Sansa decides, and settles herself for a long wait. This is a trick she learned from Joffrey. She can’t avoid his presence or refuse his invitations, but she can keep all her hurt inside, and deny him the satisfaction of seeing it. And who knows; perhaps, with the Hound gone, she can revisit the possibility of pushing him off a wall.

“I do not believe we have an appointment,” Lord Tywin says at last, setting his quill down. He fixes her with a fierce look that wouldn’t have been out of place on her direwolf, and she reminds herself to spend some time this evening hating Cersei for that loss. The look is as brief as it is intense, and he smoothes out a fresh sheet of parchment. The quill resumes scratching.

“It is a family matter, my lord,” Sansa says.

The quill pauses. “You have no family, girl.”

Sansa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound, her slow, even breaths don’t stutter. “My new family, my lord.” She lowers her eyes demurely. “Our family.”

She doesn’t look up, but she can feel the weight of his gaze. He’s watching her. “Indeed.”

Nothing shows in her voice or demeanor of the satisfaction at gaining his interest. “I come from a nest of traitors. But they, negligible threat though they were, have been eliminated, and soon that name will be extinguished. Freed of that burden, I can show that there is still strength in the North, there is still honor, as I serve my King and lord.” She curtseys.

Lord Tywin scoffs. “I don’t believe that for a second, Lady Stark. I knew your father, a strong leader for all that he was burdened with an overabundance of honor and an utter lack of good sense. A fool--an honorable fool, for all the good that did him--but still a fool. But you… you have some real Northern strength in you, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa doesn’t move, doesn’t react, while she tries to work out whether that was all insult, or there was a backhanded compliment buried in there somewhere.

“What exactly is it that you want? Besides to assure me of your unwavering loyalty to House Lannister, of course.”

“My old life is over. I have no father, no House, no name. But by choosing me for your son, I will have all these things again. I would ask that as I embark on this new life, that you would do me the honor of standing as my father at the wedding.”

He gives a short laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

She dares to look up. “Perfectly, my lord father.”

He regards her over folded hands, long enough that her feet are starting to get sore. She meets his gaze squarely, refusing to fidget or sigh like a disobedient child.

“Presuming such familiarity will not make me more positively inclined towards you,” he says at last. “Ask any of my children.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa says, privately resolving to do nothing of the sort.

“However, that does not mean your point has no merit. I will give you away.” He returns to his letter pointedly, and Sansa takes the hint and makes herself scarce.

She goes to the godswood to think. She isn’t quite ready to forgive the gods yet, but as a retreat, it has its merits. There are fewer people, for one. Conversation is discouraged, for another.

She walks the paths, finding some comfort in the quiet of the trees, even if everything is too bright and green for her tastes. She misses the godswood at Winterfell.

She misses it before Ramsay polluted it by marrying her there.

Her steps quicken, and for a time she is too breathless to think. When Ramsay is buried as deep as she can make him, she turns her thoughts to the unexpected conversation with her future father by law.

Lord Tywin is the Head of House Lannister and preoccupied with the continuance and prosperity of his House. One didn’t need to be the daughter of the Head of House Stark to know that; anyone with eyes and ears would reach the same conclusion. Sansa had imagined him a bit like Cersei, who for all her many faults is fanatically devoted to her family, but without the specific dislike for Sansa personally.

It was in her best interest, therefore, to convince him that she is devoted to the glory of House Lannister. Lord Tyrion’s protection is all well and good, but Joffrey won’t be deterred by words alone, whether wedding vows or threats. Perhaps, if Lord Tywin saw that she intends to be a dutiful wife and daughter, he might be inclined to grant her small favors, if there’s no inconvenience to himself. Start with thwarting Joffrey’s attempt to further humiliate her at her wedding, and work up to active protection.

And then she actually met the man.

He was… not nice. Nice is definitely not the word. But… willing to be reasonable? It’s too soon to tell, of course, and she must be careful not to overreach and put herself in a worse position. But she thinks she might be able to dream bigger than the occasional intervention at the worst of Joffrey’s abuses. To make real plans.

Because Lord Tywin is almost as old as Maester Luwin. He has one son in the Kingsguard, sworn to take no wife and bear no children, and only one other son.

A son Sansa will soon wed.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past and Tyrion's alcoholism. This chapter also contains Sansa and Tyrion's wedding night. There is explicit sex in this chapter, dubiously consensual because of Sansa's age and circumstances. We tried to make it as realistic as possible, so while there's nothing violent or overtly coercive (they both judge having sex to be the most palatable of their limited options), it's awkward and not terribly sexy.

Someone has loaned Sansa their handmaidens. She suspects Cersei, because they bathe and perfume her with bright smiles and light chatter that make a mockery of the circumstances. Not that Sansa isn’t smiling with them. She doesn’t think she could pull off genuine pleasure, but she hopes that she looks mature and dignified, because as far as everyone in King’s Landing is concerned, she is pleased by the match, or at least content.

Only Shae seems to be appropriately solemn, seeing Sansa’s heart as always, and Sansa treasures the support as she dons her wedding gown. Again.

At least her waiting is finally at an end.

The girls flutter around her, styling her hair and painting her face and settling the fall of her dress just so, while Sansa practices smiling in the mirror.

“Lord Tyrion is kind,” Sansa says, half to Shae and half to her own reflection. As reassurances go, it falls short.

“Hmm,” Shae says, aggressively rearranging the mess of leftover hair things.

Sansa’s lips quirk in a fond smile. Shae is always suspicious and protective, facing up to the Hound and badmouthing Lord Baelish.

Her smile fades quickly. Of course, Lord Baelish proved to be untrustworthy in the extreme. But Lord Tyrion is not like that.

Seven, let Lord Tyrion not be like that.

While she was distracted, someone let Lord Tyrion into the room. The girls leave quickly, though to Sansa’s relief Shae stays at her side.

She is still looking in her mirror, and firmly tells herself to look more like a wife and less like a cat dropped in a river.

She’s glad she can’t see her smile when she turns to face her soon-to-be-husband, but hopes it isn’t as pained as his.

She searches for something to say, before the silence becomes too heavy. “You look very handsome, my lord.”

It’s not a total lie, it’s a fine coat, and the scar gives his face a certain dignity.

Clearly he doesn’t believe her, because he rolls his eyes and scoffs. He seems to remember the circumstances at the last minute, and compliments her appearance in turn.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Shae huffs under her breath.

She’s right, this is stifling.

“Perhaps we could have some privacy?” Lord Tyrion asks.

Sansa can’t imagine how that’s going to help, but no one asks her opinion.

She’s totally right, though, because they transition from awkward silence to awkward babbling the moment they’re alone.

But as it goes on, she begins to find it a bit endearing. Neither of them wanted to be in this position, and they are both, ineptly, trying their best to salvage something bearable out of it.

“You’ll no longer be a prisoner,” he says. “You’re going to be my wife.” He winces. “Though I suppose that’s a sort of prison.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she says, managing a more genuine smile this time. She has been wife and prisoner before, after all, and this is not that. “It is a great improvement.”

Faint praise, perhaps, but sincere, and he smiles, and takes her arm, and leads her to the Sept.

He pats her arm before going to take his place, leaving her outside the doors.

Traditionally, the bride uses this time to say her farewells to her family as she prepares to accept her new role as wife. But of course Sansa is alone.

He is not Joffrey. He is not Ramsay.

Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

She lifts her chin and walks through the doors.

Joffrey appears on her right, smirking with malicious glee as he reminds her of her fatherless status and extends his arm.

“I think not,” Lord Tywin says, taking his place at her side and leaving Joffrey to step back or be stepped on. He retreats in frustrated confusion.

It is a moment Sansa will treasure for years to come.

It gives her the strength to present a small smile to the world, giving the event a slightly less funereal air, and if it’s due to vindictive satisfaction at finally getting one over on Joffrey, well, she doesn’t think Lord Tyrion would object to that. Nor does she particularly care if he did.

Her future husband is looking a little confused, though whether it’s due to her expression or her escort she couldn’t guess. Or perhaps it’s Joffrey, up on the dais when he has no real reason to be there.

Lord Tywin escorts her up the steps, and she takes her place at Lord Tyrion’s side. She is disconcerted to see Joffrey looking smug as she passes by. She is intimately familiar with Joffrey’s moods; he should be seething at being denied something he wants. What is he up to?

“You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection.”

And suddenly Sansa remembers Joffrey’s spiteful, childish humiliation of her husband, making the both of them look ridiculous.

She bows to the septon, then spreads her skirts and kneels in an excess of piety, hoping it looks like part of the ceremony to the audience. Her habit of hiding from Joffrey in the godswood has given her a reputation as very devout.

No one laughs, the cloak settles around her shoulders, and she is a Stark no more.

~*~

The ceremony is long since over, and they’ve begun the wedding feast, but Sansa can still feel the reassuring weight of her wedding cloak. It might be odd that the words _under your protection_ mean so much to her when the man protecting her is smaller than she is, but her travels have taught her that physical strength is not the only strength in the world.

The ability to smile when you want to cry is one. The ability to keep your hands by your sides when your fist wants to strike out is another. The friends Lord Tyrion has, the last name he possesses; they are strengths as well.

The last name that Sansa now shares.

It doesn’t protect her as well as it protects him. The only thing that will ensure her safety is a baby in her arms. A Lannister baby. A baby means an heir, means she has proven herself valuable. She hopes a baby means Tywin will send them to Casterly Rock, and while she’s sure Casterly Rock is nothing compared to Winterfell, while the Lannister home is not the castle of her dreams, anything is better than King’s Landing.

To get a baby, though, requires acts she’d rather not think of. Acts she’ll have to perform tonight.

Possibly with an audience.

She reaches for her wine glass without thinking and takes a larger sip than is strictly proper. She can’t hide her wince at the taste, a taste she has yet to acquire, and beside her, Lord Tyrion laughs quietly to himself.

“Careful Sansa. We’ve only been married for a few hours. It’s too soon for you to pick up on my more unsavory habits.”

“Apologies, my lord.”

She puts her glass back where it belongs and turns her attention to her dinner. She will need her strength to get through the night and as tempting as it is to give herself over to the wine, Lord Tyrion is right; that is his vice, and one of them will need to be clear-headed tonight.

“Tyrion, please,” the man says, “and I didn’t mean to censure you. Drink as much as you’d like. I can hardly judge you for it.”

He had asked her to call him Tyrion the first time she was married to him as well, and the name sits no more naturally on her tongue now than it had then. But if she cannot even say his name then how is she to do what has to be done tonight? If she calls him Lord Tyrion in bed will Joffrey laugh?

The thought of Joffrey watching her wedding night makes her pick up her wine glass again so quickly that a bit sloshes over the side and onto her hand.

Lord Tyrion watches her, cautious, curious. “Would you like to speak of what troubles you?” he asks.

Sansa isn’t sure how to voice her concerns, isn’t sure who is listening in and what is appropriate to say. Her fingers tremble around the stem of her glass and she is forced to put it down before it spills more.

“There is a tradition in the North,” she says, “When a couple is married. They call it a -” she looks around, but everyone is too engrossed in their own dinners and their own conversations to pay attention to a traitor’s daughter and a dwarf “-a bedding.”

Lord Tyrion’s careful mask slips and Sansa catches a glimpse of horror before he reaches for the decanter of wine and generously fills both their glasses. “We will not be having one.”

“My lord,” she protests. It’s strange to be arguing in favor of a bedding, but they need to have one. Lord Tywin needs to see that she is going to honor this marriage. Joffrey needs to see that Sansa belongs to his uncle now. She needs proof.

Lord Tyrion tips his glass, drinks until it’s empty and refills it. “I am uncle to the King, son of the Hand, a former Hand myself, and now Master of Coin. If I don’t want a bedding, there will not be one. Unless you truly wish the entire court to witness what should be private between a man and his wife?”

Of course she doesn’t. But - this brings her back to her original thought. Proof that she’s trying won’t protect her, not really; only a healthy son in her arms can do that. A bedding would provide so little protection for such a large embarrassment, and is perhaps not worth fighting for.

She abandons the argument with no small relief.

Then she moves the decanter out of Lord Tyrion’s reach, and she refuses to back down at the look he gives her. “There will be no bedding if that’s what you wish, but we still must do ‘what should be private between a man and his wife’, which means you cannot pass out from drink at dinner.”

“Married a few hours and already telling me what to do,” Lord Tyrion sighs, but she doesn’t think he sounds angry. He might, she thinks, even be joking.

Sansa feels brave enough to venture a light-hearted, “Is that not the principal duty of a wife?” and she’s rewarded with a genuine laugh from her husband.

She cuts her meat into small pieces and begins to eat, forcing herself to chew and swallow each one.

“This is a rather nice wedding feast,” Lord Tyrion says, apparently deciding she isn’t too traumatized by the wedding to hold a conversation. “Not nearly as grand as Joffrey’s will be, of course, but there is good food, good wine, and no one is bothering us.”

“I’m enjoying it as well,” Sansa says, “I suppose it’s a reason to be grateful I was married to you and not Joffrey.”

“One of several, I suspect,” Lord Tyrion says, and he reaches for a cluster of grapes, hiding whatever expression might be on his face.

“I have nothing ill to say of our King,” Sansa says, because Lord Tyrion may be her husband and may be a potential ally but he is still a Lannister and uncle to the King. “But I have many compliments to give to my husband.”

He doesn’t call her out on the obvious lie about Joffrey. “Many compliments? Have I made that good of an impression on you, my lady?”

“If I am to call you Tyrion then you should call me Sansa,” she says and there is a moment when she doesn’t recognize her own voice. She’s--she’s _flirting_.

He is your husband, she reminders herself. You are going to be intimate with him. You may grow to love him. You need him to love you. It is not a betrayal to be this woman. It is another mask to slip on. Another person to pretend to be.

She sneaks a glance at her husband. He is staring, grape halfway to his open mouth.

“You are brave,” she says. “I was in the Red Keep during the siege, and I could hear the battle, and you fought to save the city. You have been kind to me, even before we were engaged, even when it was not in popular to be kind to me. And, you are generous for sharing the wine with me even though I have been told you could drink the whole decanter on your own.”

Lord Tyrion--there is no need for artificial familiarity in the privacy of her own thoughts--laughs again and says, “If only you were so generous, Sansa,” and looks at the decanter she put out of his reach.

She could say something witty, distract him from the wine or simply not give it to him, but she remembers their last wedding night, how it was only the amount of alcohol he’d drunk that saved them from their bedding. She’d rather not watch her husband make a drunken fool of himself, but that is less painful than what could happen.

She gives him the wine. “I hope this will keep you good company while I give my respects to Lady Margaery.”

“Of course,” Lord Tyrion says, pouring himself another full glass. “You have your friends, and I have mine.”

Sansa’s not sure she can call Margaery a friend, but she is certainly someone Sansa wishes was a friend. And as future queen, she is a valuable friend to have.

She is fortunate that the Tyrells have their own table at the feast, separate from where Joffrey and the rest of the Lannisters sit. Sansa can talk to Margaery and even Lady Olenna without having to greet Cersei or Joffrey.

She curtseys deeply before the Tyrell table. “Lady Olenna,” she says, “Lady Margaery.”

“Sansa, dear,” Lady Olenna says. “I was just telling Margaery that we should give you our best wishes for your marriage, but these old bones of mine don’t move as well as they used to.”

“You’re not old,” Sansa immediately assures her, and Lady Olenna just laughs.

“It’s sweet that you think so. Or sweet of you to say so, I should say, but I am old. And I fear I haven’t aged as gracefully as Lord Tywin.”

“I see you and your husband are enjoying the feast,” Margaery says, apparently deciding a change in conversation is due.

“We are. I hope you will find the same joy at yours.”

“Of course,” Margaery says, “Joffrey is my love, and I look forward to the day we are joined before all the gods and kingdoms.”

She lies better than Sansa did her first time here, and Sansa hopes that means she’s prepared for what it will mean to be Joffrey’s wife. She wonders if being Queen is truly worth it.

“Hmm,” Lady Olenna says, peering around Sansa. “You might want to cut your husband off before he cannot walk to your wedding bed let alone perform in it.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery gasps.

Sansa can feel her cheeks heat, and she turns to see Lord Tyrion swaying in his seat as he helps himself to another glass of wine.

“My husband is my lord,” Sansa says, demure, “I would not presume to tell him what to do.”

“Of course not,” Margaery says. “But a wife may make suggestions to her husband.”

“Thank you for your advice,” Sansa says. She watches as Lord Tyrion begins to tip to the side before he manages to right himself. “I think, perhaps, it is too late for suggestions of abstinence.”

“From wine, certainly,” Lady Olenna says, and Sansa says her goodbyes before she turns to go towards the squires’ table. She finds Podrick with ease, the boy enjoying his chicken. The table falls silent as she approaches, but he doesn’t notice until the boy next to him elbows him sharply in the side.

“What was that for?” Podrick demands and then swivels to see what everyone is staring at.

“You are my lord’s squire?” Sansa asks.

Podrick looks at her dumbly for a moment before he nods. He hurriedly sets his drumstick down and wipes his hands on his pants. “Yes, my lady. I’m at your service as I’m at his.”

“I fear my husband will not make it back to our chambers on his own,” she says. She looks back at where she left Lord Tyrion and he helpfully sloshes an entire glass of wine over the contents of his dinner plate. When she turns back to Podrick he nods, agreeing with her. “Could I trouble you to assist him there?”

“Of course, my lady,” Podrick says. “I’ll,” he looks around and, deciding the present company isn’t fit, nods towards a man in simple armor by the door, “I’ll get Bronn. We’ll get him back to his chambers. Um, I don’t know if we’ll be able to be discreet.”

They would hardly be able to beg off a bedding if they were discreet. Sansa tosses her hair. “No need. Perhaps if he makes a spectacle of himself on our wedding night he will be less inclined to overindulge next time.”

Podrick’s eyes widen, almost like he’s afraid of her, which is new, but he nods. “Yes, my lady. Of course. As you like.”

Sansa puts him out of his misery and says, “Thank you,” before sweeping away.

She returns to her table, neatly plucking the wine glass from Lord Tyrion’s lax hand and putting both glass and decanter well out of reach, with no intent to return either this time.

“That’s enough of that,” she says. “Would you like to try and eat something before we retire?”

“Eat?” Lord Tyrion asks. His head lolls to the side like his neck can’t support it. “Retire?”

She puts two rolls in front of him. “Eat those. Maybe they can soak up some of the wine you’re trying to drown yourself with.”

“You sound displeased, my lady,” he says, words slurring together.

She’ll be displeased if he cannot do his duty tonight. Actually, she’s displeased _now_ , because here he is drinking like being married to her is the worst thing that could happen to him. She’d like to see him bear a few days of _her_ life, that might shift his perspective a bit.

She is marrying him because ‘Lord Tyrion’s wife’ sounds more pleasant than ‘hostage’. She will have his children and help his family grow while hers is extinguished.

All he has to do is marry a young woman.

If either of them deserves to be drunk right now, it’s her.

She stares him down until he meekly picks apart the rolls and eats them. She hopes it’ll be enough, because Podrick and Bronn arrive and that means they’re leaving. Bronn is a gruff man, wearing some of the armor of the City Watch, absent the cape, and he doesn’t have the manner of a highborn.

Bronn looks over Lord Tyrion to Sansa, and she doesn’t like the look in his eyes. It makes her wish she had a cloak to wrap tight around herself. Petyr would look at her like that sometimes.

She pushes to her feet, lets her chair scrape across the floor. It calls attention to them, but that’s what she wants.

“Time to retire to our chambers,” Sansa announces. For her husband’s ears alone, she adds, “Your squire and your -” she looks over Bronn - “friend are here to help you.”

“What’s this?” Joffrey demands, almost on cue, as Bronn and Podrick help Lord Tyrion to his feet.

Lord Tyrion obligingly sways between them.

“I’m afraid my husband has celebrated our marriage too much,” Sansa says. “I’m bringing him back to our chambers.”

“But the bedding,” Joffrey says, sulking like a child denied a sweet.

“It is clear your uncle is in no shape for a bedding,” Lord Tywin says, enough distaste in his voice to make Sansa cringe even though it isn’t directed at her.

Lord Tyrion doesn’t appear to have heard. He’s humming something under his breath, and Sansa would like to leave before he starts singing or spouting off nonsense like last time.

“I hope you all continue to enjoy the feast,” she says, and she curtseys once before taking her leave.

They escape before Joffrey can come up with a reason to call them back.

Sansa grants herself one short, relieved breath when they pass through the doors of the great hall, one moment where she lets herself relax, then straightens her shoulders again and follows the men to where Lord Tyrion lives. Where she and Lord Tyrion both live, she supposes.

She hopes Shae has moved her things into Lord Tyrion’s chambers. She wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning to find she has no clothes to wear.

“Uh, it was a nice ceremony,” Podrick says after they’ve been walking in silence for some time.

“I think I shed a few tears,” Bronn says, and the insincerity in his voice makes her realize that Podrick sounded like he actually meant it.

“It was a nice wedding,” Sansa says. It certainly could have been worse.

“Are weddings different in the North?” Podrick asks.

“I’m not in the North,” Sansa says, sharper than she means to, because Podrick falls silent. Guilty, she adds, “In some ways. The ceremony is similar, but if I had been married at Winterfell, we would’ve been married outside before the heart tree.”

“Outside? But isn’t it cold?” Podrick asks.

Sansa smiles. “I have attended weddings in the snow. We wear cloaks.”

“Good thing that’s not how you got hitched to him,” Bronn says, jerking a thumb towards Lord Tyrion. “You might have lost him in a snowbank.”

Sansa’s abruptly reminded of the snowbank she and Theon jumped into at Winterfell. She thought she’d lost him there, thought she might have lost herself. But they’d found Melisandre and now she’s here, trying to change the course of her life.

Melisandre had some grand plan for Sansa to save the world, which is ludicrous, and impossible; she is far too late to save her father. But that was never Sansa’s priority. Outside Winterfell, she just wanted to survive. Now, she can do more. She has a chance to carve out a life for herself that she _enjoys_.

She’s going to be happy.

“Hey!” Lord Tyrion protests, breaking Sansa out of her thoughts. “I’m not that short.”

“I don’t think you understand how much it snows in the North,” Bronn says.

“It’s not fair to mock me when I’m drunk and incapable of refuting your claims,” Lord Tyrion says.

“If I didn’t mock you when you were drunk, I’d never get to mock you.”

They reach Lord Tyrion’s chambers before the squabbling can grow into anything worse, and Podrick hurries ahead to open the doors for them.

Bronn laughs, but Sansa gives Podrick a warm smile and says, “Thank you,” because she appreciates that some people in this castle are capable of common decency.

“Well, here we are,” Bronn says, giving Lord Tyrion a shove through the door. “If you’ll be needing my help with anything else tonight -”

“That will be all, thank you,” Lord Tyrion says sharply, looking a touch more sober than he had before. He shuts the door in Bronn’s face, and Sansa is reminded of why she wants this marriage. Only one man is allowed to touch her now, and that man is not Bronn of the City Watch.

She needs the reminder, because now it’s just her and Lord Tyrion in their bedchamber, and her courage threatens to desert her. She knows what she has to do - what _they_ have to do - but she’s still nervous. Her previous experiences with a man had been… unpleasant, and while she doesn’t think Lord Tyrion will go out of his way to hurt her, she understands that the experience will still be painful.

She approaches the bed, heart hammering, and reaches for the stays of her dress. She can do this.

She _has_ to do this.

She takes her time with the ties, because Lord Tyrion isn’t rushing her, because it is a beautiful dress, and because in spite of everything she is afraid of what comes next. But eventually she reaches the last one, and only her hands keep the dress covering her as she turns back towards her husband.

He has pulled the stopper off the wine--of course there was more wine!--but he hasn’t gotten as far as pouring it, too busy staring at her.

“Perhaps no more wine,” she suggests, and lets her dress slip, just a little. She blushes at the memory of Margaery’s advice about ‘suggesting’ things to husbands, because surely this isn’t how she meant it.

Lord Tyrion clears his throat, and it seems to shake him out of his stupor. “Definitely more wine. We don’t -” he tears his eyes away from her - “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

“We do,” Sansa says, because if they don’t, if she gives herself a pass, she may never find her courage again. “It’s our wedding night.”

“Right. Yes. You are my wife. A man is expected to have sex with his wife. A man is also expected to have morals.”

He eyes the wine again. Sansa is beginning to feel desperate. Must she strip naked and present herself to him? She’s young, and men enjoy young wives. And, it’s vain to think, but she _is_ pretty. Shouldn’t that be enough?

She begins to tremble, overwhelmed, and before she can talk the steel back into her spine, she remembers the trial at the Vale. Emotion is just as great a weapon as stoicism if one uses it right, and if there’s one thing she learned growing up at Winterfell surrounded by men and boys it is that they cannot stand hysteria.

“Do I displease you?” Sansa asks, her voice soft, meant to catch Lord Tyrion’s attention, lure him into devoting all of it to her. She drops her eyes to the floor. “Is it because I was engaged to Joffrey? Nothing happened. I mean, he kissed me once, but that’s it.” Her eyes flit to his, willing him to believe her. “I swear. I swear that’s all that happened.” Her voice is beginning to rise, there’s a faint tremor in it that threatens greater tremors, _tears_ even.

“What?” Lord Tyrion protests. “No. No, my lady, there is nothing I find displeasing about you.”

“Then why do you prefer _that_ ,” she throws all the rage she can muster into a glare for the wine, “over me? By the laws of the gods I am your wife, but by the laws of men I do not yet have that honor.”

“Honor.” Lord Tyrion laughs bitterly, but he steps away from the table and starts on the fastenings of his vest. Victory. “Do you know anything about what we must do for you to have this ‘honor’?”

Sansa firmly pushes aside her memories of Ramsay and shakes her head. “No, my lord. Lady Margaery says mothers often tell their daughters these things, but mine never did.”

“Their mothers, huh?” Lord Tyrion asks, a smile on his face Sansa doesn’t understand. Then he shakes himself. “You’ve only ever had a kiss?”

Sansa nods because it’s important for highborn women to be pure on their wedding night. “You’re the only man I’ll ever know.”

“Oh gods,” Lord Tyrion says. “Please don’t start with that. Just, I don’t know, you get naked, and I’ll get naked, we’ll get this done and then I can try to sleep off my inevitable hangover.”

It’s not the most romantic of proposals, but she thinks she would resent him if he tried to romance her. It would feel like a lie. Instead, this is something they both must do, and they both realize that they must do it.

Sansa lets her clothes drop to the floor and gets into… she supposes it’s their bed, now. She covers herself with the sheet, because she doesn’t feel comfortable baring her body to anyone. Maybe, if she pulls the sheet over her head, Lord Tyrion will forget she’s here and they won’t have to do this.

Last time - last time hurt for many reasons, and, perhaps this is an unkind thought to have, but she hopes that because he is so small, he will be small other places as well. Surely that would make it hurt less.

He drops his pants, and she’s dismayed to see that is not the case.

He catches her staring. “Disappointed?”

“I-” her cheeks are aflame, and she knows she can’t say ‘I thought it would be smaller’ but what comes out instead is, “How will it fit?” and she’s not sure that’s any better.

She expects him to laugh, maybe to boast, but instead he pauses, and he looks more sober than she’s seen him all night.

“There is a place in your body meant for it to fit.”

She knows _that_ , but it is not a very large place. Does he mean to hammer it in like Ramsay? Even if he pushes carefully it will still hurt. Under the sheet, she crosses her legs like that will somehow protect her.

He approaches the bed, and she doesn’t realize how tightly she’s clinging to the sheet until he tries to ease it down. She takes a deep breath and forces her fingers to unclench, lets him tug it from her grasp so he can reveal her body.

He looks her over, and she can see that he’s interested, but he doesn’t feel hungry like Petyr or possessive like Ramsay, and when his hand cups her cheek, the touch is so gentle, so unexpected, that her eyes fly to his face.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” she whispers, all her courage, her brave face, everything gone now that her body is bared. She’s ashamed of herself, ashamed of the tears that threaten to rise, and she wants to look away, but Lord Tyrion holds her gaze.

“It won’t, my lady.”

It’s a promise, but she’s seen too many promises broken to believe him.

Still, she covers his hand with hers. “Can we do it like this?”

Him above her, but looking at each other. Not with her on her stomach, taken like she could be anyone. Not like Ramsay.

She begins to tremble again.

“Of course,” Tyrion says. “I am going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she says. Kissing is fine.

When he kisses her, it isn’t like the brief kiss with Joffrey where it felt like he was playing a part, and it’s not like Petyr who kissed her like she was a poor substitute for someone else.

He kisses her like he wants to taste her, like there’s something in her mouth that he wants, and it’s unfamiliar and it’s a little weird, but she doesn’t hate it. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do, though. Does she move her mouth against his? Does she simply let him do what he wants?

He moves his lips away from hers to kiss her cheek, then the curve of her jaw. He presses a kiss just under her ear, and she shivers even though it isn’t cold. It’s weird, because her body is flushing, is _warm_ , so she doesn’t understand how she can be shivering.

He tucks his face against her neck and takes a deep breath before he looks at her again. “May I touch you?”

She frowns a little, because his hands are on her shoulders, and his legs are astride her body, and they are touching quite a bit. Why ask permission now?

And then one of his hands skims lower, past her breasts, past her stomach, hovering over - oh.

 _Oh_.

Unable to speak, she gives a small nod, and looks up at the ceiling, preparing herself for pain.

Instead, his hand touches her, gently, and it’s only a finger he presses into her. It’s enough of a shock that she looks back down at him. He’s not looking at her, head bent so she can only see the curls of his hair.

It feels...odd, but it doesn’t hurt, and she supposes that’s something to be grateful for. And then he adds a second finger, moving them around the way a man might move something else in there, and she doesn’t understand. His fingers can’t get her pregnant. What is he doing?

“Relax,” Tyrion tells her, free hand petting her thigh. “I promised you this wouldn’t hurt.”

Slowly, carefully, he eases a third finger into her, and he eases them apart, spreading them, spreading _her_ , and she understands. It’s going to fit, because he’s making space for it to fit.

She’s glad he isn’t looking at her, because the tears rise now, trickling out the corners of her eyes and onto her pillow. Her husband _is_ kind. And he is gentle.

He is more than she ever thought she would have.

When he finally enters her, it doesn’t hurt. It feels strange, something in her body that isn’t usually there, but strange she can endure. Strange, she can live with. And, perhaps, as they do this more it will not feel quite so strange.

She grows alarmed as he begins to grunt and pant, worried something’s wrong but then he...finishes inside her, and she can’t help the face that she makes. It’s _wet_. And when he pulls of out her, he wipes himself on the sheet, the same sheet that he then pulls over their bodies.

“Sleep,” he tells her, tucking himself against her side and closing his eyes.

She stares up at her ceiling, unsure why this detail is the one that she struggles with the most. She assumed sharing his bed simply meant what they just did, not _sharing_ their bed. Ramsay would have his way with her and then lock her in her room or, if they had been in his room, force her to walk through the halls naked and crying until he locked her in her room again.

Once again, she’s reminded that her new husband is nothing like her old one.

He is not Joffrey, she tells herself. He is not Ramsay.

Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

She closes her eyes and sleeps.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past, including implied references to sexual assault. Some discriminatory remarks about Tyrion.

When Sansa wakes up, the sun is streaming in through the curtains, and her new husband’s face is pressed against her chest. He is snoring lightly, and Sansa doesn’t want to wake him, but she also doesn’t want to be so close to him.

She wants the space, but she needs the time. Time to decide what face to present. She stays in bed.

Now that they’re married, is she devoted to him and in love?

Devoted, yes.

In love, he would see it for a lie and doubt her.

Amenable to being in love? Possibly.

That decided, she eases out of his grasp and he grunts but then turns over and continues to sleep.

She goes to the wash basin to wipe down the insides of her thighs, blushing fiercely even though there’s no one to see her, and hurriedly puts a dressing gown on. Fully dressed isn’t right for an intimate breakfast between a husband and wife, but she certainly doesn’t want to be naked.

Or maybe she does.

She opens the gown in front of the looking glass, touches her skin. Her smooth, unblemished skin. There are no marks, no bruises, not even light scratches from his hands. He has left her whole and, maybe, she thinks, pressing her palm to her stomach, he’s given her something.

But she can’t let her hopes run away with her.

She ties her robe back up again and sits at Lord Tyrion’s desk. Her desk? Their desk? Joining him in his chambers, is she his guest? Are his things now hers?

None of these questions had any relevance during her time with Ramsay, and she is floundering.

She moves to the window seat and looks out at the harbor while her husband sleeps. She’s done it. She successfully had sex with her husband. But that is only a first step. Because of the nature of falling pregnant, and the importance that it happen as soon as possible, she will have to lay with him every night she doesn’t bleed until she’s certain she’s pregnant.

She glances over at the bed and can’t quite help her grimace. Last night hadn’t been unbearable, but she’s not sure she would call it enjoyable either.

Still. Better than being dead.

Better than being Joffrey’s. Or Ramsay’s.

She should be celebrating her victory, but instead she futilely wishes she still had family to share her troubles, questions and triumphs with.

Her reverie is disturbed when Shae arrives with their breakfast tray. She doesn’t knock, which Sansa has grown used to, but what if Sansa had still been in bed with her husband?

Servants are a bit more… omnipresent in King’s Landing than Winterfell, and Sansa has grown accustomed to attendants at bath, a team to dress her for formal occasions, but here she has to draw the line. She isn’t prepared for her any servant, even Shae, to have such unfettered access to her intimate, married life.

Experienced servants take no more notice of nudity than a desk or a chair, but not Shae. Her eyes flick towards the bed, to Sansa’s mostly-uncovered husband, then to Sansa, and she sets the breakfast tray down with a clatter. Perhaps it’s time to have another talk with Shae about handmaiden etiquette.

“Trouble sleeping?” Shae asks.

Sansa shrugs. “The sun was up.”

Shae hits the metal juice pitcher against the metal tray, sloppy even for her, and the clang is enough to make Sansa wince and Lord Tyrion groan. She knocks the glasses together after she pours them and Lord Tyrion makes another noise of protest, sitting up slowly and clutching his head, and Sansa is reminded of the time the boys snuck into their father’s wine cellar.

Robb, Theon, and Jon had shared a bottle amongst the three of them and had terrible headaches the next morning, complaining that the sun was too bright and any kind of noise was too loud. Their father, pitilessly, sent them to the blacksmith to fix all the damaged horseshoes.

They never snuck a drink again.

Lord Tyrion had quite a bit more than one bottle of wine last night, and perhaps a part of her wants to watch him suffer, but she remembers his kindness to her last night, and this is a simple way she can repay it, and to start her married life as she means to go on.

“Enough,” Sansa says when Shae carelessly drops one of the plates. She didn’t drink to excess last night and _she_ ’s developing a headache. “You’re dismissed.”

Shae and Tyrion both give Sansa their full attention.

“I don’t know what has made you so clumsy this morning, but I suggest you go sleep it off,” Sansa says. “Podrick will attend us for lunch and dinner, and when you return tomorrow morning you will serve us breakfast without all this racket.”

Shae’s eyes darken and her lips press together briefly, but she nods. “Of course,” she says and stalks out of the room.

It’s odd, almost haughty behavior, even for Shae, and Sansa yet again wonders how she ended up with this woman as her handmaiden.

“Don’t you think that was a bit harsh?” Tyrion asks, rubbing his eyes.

His hair is tousled and he doesn’t cover his mouth as he yawns, mouth stretching wide, looking for a moment like the lion that marks all the Lannister shields and flags.

“She was bothering you,” Sansa says. “And she’s still learning how to be a handmaiden. I think someone sent her to me to train her, because she doesn’t know much. Or as some kind of cruel joke.” It could easily be either. She doesn’t share her silly theory about a secret bodyguard.

She thinks he means to say something else, but in the end all he does is fetch his own dressing gown.

She averts her eyes.

He joins her at the table, moving a bit gingerly. She politely keeps her voice soft, her tone light and teasing. “In any case, I’m sure we can serve ourselves breakfast.”

He rewards her efforts with a mischievous smile. “Serve ourselves? How ever will we manage?”

Sansa laughs and looks over the platter for something that looks good. Something sweet maybe. A pastry? She finds one she likes, light and flaky, and when she bites into it she finds that it’s filled with raspberry jam.

“Oh,” she says as the sweetness melts against her tongue. They’re her favorite, because they’re a breakfast food but taste like dessert and she feels the first pricklings of guilt for sending Shae away so abruptly. No one else would have bothered to bring her her favorite food the morning after her wedding. “Perhaps I was harsh.”

“What?” Tyrion asks, quite preoccupied with his aching head.

“Nothing,” Sansa says, and enjoys the rest of her pastry in silence.

~*~

Breakfast is civil enough, and Tyrion--she supposes he ought to be Tyrion now, even in her thoughts--departs to do… whatever it is he does all day. She has no idea what kind of responsibilities the Master of Coin holds.

He seldom had time to attend her before their wedding, whether because of those responsibilities or a disinclination to spend time with her--probably both--and hopefully that pattern will continue. She suspects their marriage will be easier on both of them the less time they spend together.

She takes the opportunity to track down Shae, who still looks upset. Sansa feels a slight pang; she isn’t usually harsh, and Shae does try.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she says. “With breakfast.”

Shae gives her a strained smile.

“And… I want you to know that your position is secure. I can see that your efforts are sincere, and you work hard, and I am not the sort of mistress to cast someone aside over a misunderstanding. Lord Tyrion is my husband, but you are my handmaiden, and I won’t forget.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Sansa suspects that she’s making things more complicated for them both by sometimes treating Shae more as a friend than a handmaiden, but she can’t bear to give that up. The only other people with a civil word for her are Margaery, who is far too busy to entertain Sansa all day, and her husband.

She resolves to do something nice for Shae, to assure her of her place in Sansa’s household and affections. She is considering what would be best when she reaches the door to her new rooms and finds Cersei waiting for her.

The Queen Mother is deeply unsettled by something. Sansa knows because, though she has the same sour expression she always has in Sansa’s presence, she doesn’t say anything bitter or cutting.

“The Hand has summoned you,” Cersei says.

Sansa feels the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Cersei’s eyes narrow, rallying a bit in the face of Sansa’s discomfiture. “I’m certain he meant now.”

Unable to speak, Sansa meekly follows her down the hall. Cersei escorts her personally, whether because she thinks Sansa would wander off otherwise or for some malicious Cersei reason, Sansa doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

What can have happened? Her entire family is already dead. She fulfilled her duty and lay with her husband last night.

She blushes, and glances quickly at Cersei to make sure she didn’t notice.

So why this summons?

She longs for her knife.

They don’t go to the Hand’s office, but to some other room that is empty except for a long table. Lord Tywin is seated at the head, of course, and her lord husband at the foot, on a chair that is clearly specially designed for him. There’s another man at the table, handsome, and wearing the uniform of a Kingsguard.

With a start, and no small degree of self-disgust, she realizes that this is Jaime Lannister. When had he returned to King’s Landing?

Sansa is frozen in the doorway, trying to process what’s going on, and Cersei makes a disgusted sound and pushes by her.

She reaches the chair beside Ser Jaime and drags it all the way to the empty side of the table. It scrapes loudly against the floor, and Sansa cringes through the whole journey. Cersei finishes this display by flopping gracelessly into the chair and glaring at Lord Tywin like she’s daring him to reprimand her for her bad manners.

Arya used to make that face. When she was five.

Lord Tywin completely ignores this behavior, looking to Sansa instead. “Well, sit.”

She considers her options. It’s a large table, but each person is occupying one side and situated as far from the others as possible while still arguably seated at the table. It does not suggest an obvious place for a fifth person.

She settles for the chair closest to Tyrion, putting her on the same side as Ser Jaime. Not her first choice, but Cersei is hardly better, and she doesn’t want to make a spectacle of herself trying to drag one of these heavy chairs. If only her husband and father by law weren’t seated so far apart.

No one moves. No one speaks. Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears.

Desperate for something to occupy her attention, Sansa studies the odd tablecloth. This doesn’t look like a ceremonial room, and there’s no food, so she’s not sure what it’s doing here. It also has a very impractical design; it doesn’t lie flat, so it wouldn’t be easy to rest anything on it.

And it’s stained.

Sansa has a sudden, mortifying suspicion. She sneaks a look at the other occupants of the room.

Lord Tywin is watching her, and not subtly.

Through a monumental effort of will, Sansa does not gasp or run from the room. She could have had a bedding ceremony, she reminds herself. This is much better. Interested parties get their proof, and she isn’t forced to put on a show for the whole court.

She’s fairly certain her entire face is bright red, though.

She forces herself to look at Tyrion, who fortunately is not looking at her. He’s watching his father, looking tense and unhappy.

Like Sansa’s embarrassment is a cue, Lord Tywin clears his throat, and everyone remembers that they have to breathe.

“It seems that someone in this family understands their duty,” Lord Tywin says.

Cersei snorts loudly.

“You will be married soon enough.”

“I will not.”

They glare at each other.

Sansa desperately wants to be somewhere else. At least Ser Jaime looks as uncomfortable as she does; her husband is completely at ease, maybe even amused.

Cersei is the first to break eye contact, but she does not look subdued.

Lord Tywin ignores her, turning to Tyrion instead. “And you managed to bed her after all. Surprisingly.”

 And Sansa is bright red again.

Tyrion makes some kind of garbled noise, and she can tell just from the look on his face that he’s going to say something rude. She kicks him under the table, smiling warmly in the face of his shocked reproach. She takes his hand.

“We’re eager to welcome our first son,” she says.

Ser Jaime is staring at her, and she barely resists the urge to kick him, too.

“Naturally,” Lord Tywin says, “considering he will be Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Ser Jaime’s mouth drops open, and Cersei stops her aggressive sulking long enough to stare at Lord Tywin.

It’s Tyrion who finds his voice first. “What?”

He sounds as utterly shocked as his brother and sister look. That can’t be right; Ser Jaime can’t sire children, Cersei is a woman, so who but Tyrion would inherit the family estate?

But that isn’t what Lord Tywin said. The child will inherit, not Tyrion.

It’s what Sansa wants, but she’s troubled by the undercurrents here that she doesn’t understand.

“Not me?” Ser Jaime asks, after a prolonged silence.

“You are Captain of the Kingsguard, and bound by your oaths,” Lord Tywin says.

“Yes, but-”

“Or would you have them call you Oathbreaker?”

The silence descends again, and Ser Jaime bows his head and clenches his fists.

Behind his back, and occasionally to his face, Ser Jaime is well-known as Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, for his actions against the Mad King. If Sansa knows that, Lord Tywin certainly does, so that question was cruel indeed.

“You have been most adamant in your loyalty to your position,” Lord Tywin says pleasantly.

Ser Jaime doesn’t respond, but Cersei does.

“You would let that-” she waves a hand in Tyrion’s direction, not bothering to look at him, “thing, rule our home?”

Tyrion closes his mouth so tightly she can hear his teeth grinding, and Sansa gives his hand a small squeeze.

He looks as surprised as when she kicked him.

“You aren’t listening,” Lord Tywin says, voice rich with contempt for Cersei’s incomprehension. “He will do no such thing. If he can produce a healthy son, the son will inherit, and Tyrion will act as co-regent with Lord Kevan.”

He puts a peculiar inflection on “healthy”, gaze practically boring holes in Tyrion’s head, and it takes Sansa a moment to work out what he’s alluding to. She’s immediately filled with indignation.

Tyrion might not be, as he so self-deprecatingly put it, the husband of her dreams, but he’s a good, decent man, and not a… a _thing_ , or, or inadequate as an heir. He’s reportedly quite clever, and he fought bravely during the siege, and he left the post of Hand without dying, which even her brilliant father hadn’t managed. She opens her mouth to protest, but Tyrion grips her hand so firmly she squeaks instead.

When she meets his eyes, he shakes his head subtly, but seems touched by her defense.

Lord Tywin either doesn’t notice this exchange, pretends not to notice, or just doesn’t care. He surveys his three (four?) children, nods in satisfaction at finding them sullen and subdued, and dismisses them.

Tyrion stumbles back to their chambers in a daze, with her awkwardly trailing along, and he predictably opts to settle his nerves with a glass or three of wine.

Well, she’s not going to just sit here watching him drink himself into a stupor.

“Is it really that surprising?” she asks.

He drains the whole glass before he answers. “Yes.”

In the face of his conviction, she can’t bring herself to present her reasoning. He knows his family far better than she does, of course. All she knows is that they’re treacherous snakes.

Not exactly a point in their favor.

“Oh,” she says lamely, and retreats to the godswood. It’s still morning; if she lets him drink himself unconscious now then, in her admittedly limited experience, he should be… functional… by nightfall.

~*~

Sansa has been married for three days and two nights when she receives an invitation to walk with Lady Margaery in the gardens. She has not been outside except to visit the godswood, and today is a beautiful day so she’s glad of the invitation.

She puts on one of her lighter dresses and has Shae style her hair like Margaery’s, and they go together to the gardens.

“Lady Lannister!” Margaery greets, a twinkle in her eye as she pulls Sansa close to kiss first one cheek then the other. “That has quite a lovely ring to it, don’t you think? Lady Lannister.”

“Marriage has been quite agreeable,” Sansa stutters out, overwhelmed, as usual, by Margaery’s exuberance. “I do enjoy being Lady Lannister.”

“Agreeable?” Margaery asks, smile turning sly. “What kind of things are you finding so,” Margaery pauses dramatically, “ _enjoyable_?”

Sansa blushes at the implication and Margaery claps her hands together, delighted, before hooking arms with Sansa.

“You’re married now, my dear,” Margaery tells her. “It’s only right that a married woman gains certain experiences an unmarried woman wouldn’t.”

“But we’re not supposed to talk about it!” Sansa hisses, looking around to make sure they’re the only ones nearby. They left Shae with Margaery’s handmaidens at the gazebo, and the gardens appear to be empty where they are, but she knows that there is always someone watching and listening. It’s the nature of King’s Landing.

“Of course we are,” Margaery says, “How else will I know what to expect on my wedding night if other women don’t tell me what theirs was like?”

It’s a good point, but Sansa doesn’t know if she can talk about hers. It’s private. “I thought that’s what mothers were for.”

“Yes,” Margaery says, smile dimming slightly, “but my mother isn’t alive anymore, and I’m afraid my grandmother can be a little too frank for my ears sometimes.”

Sansa can understand that, but still. “I’m not sure what you can learn from me that will help you with Joffrey. He -” she weighs her words carefully, aware that anyone could be listening, and that Margaery is marrying him and may not see him the way Sansa does. “You should insist on a bedding. Or have someone insist on your behalf. Perhaps,,” Sansa blushes here, “suggest to Joffrey that a king would be gentle with his wife in front of an audience, would be kind to her so that the people might speak of what a great king he is.”

It’s not a ploy that would’ve worked on Ramsay, not that Sansa understood then what she was getting into or how to play the game, but with Joffrey she thinks it could. And she thinks Margaery could pull it off.

Margaery looks sad as she pulls Sansa in for a hug. “Wise words. I thank you for them.” Her hug lingers, as does her silence, but she breaks them both together when they continue to walk and she says, “Do you regret not having a bedding? They are a tradition.”

“My parents didn’t have a bedding,” Sansa answers. “My mother didn’t want one, and my father said it would be a shame to have to break someone’s nose on his wedding night.” Sansa smiles at the memory, a story she heard dozens of times growing up. She’d always imagined that her husband would be strong like her father, that he too would step in and protect her.

In some ways, her husband is like that.

In other ways, he is not.

“Lord Tyrion didn’t threaten anyone, but he did keep a bedding from taking place. A public one,” Sansa’s quick to add. “We still,” she waves a hand, “you know.”

“Did you?” Margaery’s smile returns. “Was it enjoyable?”

“It didn’t hurt,” Sansa says which is the truth and all she can offer. “Everyone always says the first time hurts, but it didn’t. Lord Tyrion was very kind.”

“I should hope so,” Margaery says. “I suppose those are all the details I’m going to get from you. Perhaps I should have insisted on that bedding.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“There must be some fuss or men wouldn’t be so eager to have it,” Margaery points out.

Sansa shrugs. “Maybe it will get better.”

“Oh?” The gleam is back in Margaery’s eyes. “You intend to bed him again?”

“He’s my husband,” Sansa says, blushing, because Margaery has a way of talking that makes things sound indecent. “And we need a child.”

“Ah. All business. Maybe that will change with time as well.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sansa says.

~*~

After her talk with Margaery, Sansa gives Shae the afternoon off and goes to the godswood. Now that she’s married, it’s the only place she can go to be alone.

Sansa isn’t sure if she’s angry or relieved that, in a world where guests can be slaughtered at a wedding and a promise of mercy and leniency is met with a beheading, there is such persistent belief in the sanctity of the godswood.

She kneels before the heart tree, the wrinkled face looking older than usual today. She grew out of the habit of praying in her old life, convinced that the gods weren’t listening or didn’t exist, but now her faith is budding again. She has been transported to another time, and maybe the  gods set all those trials before her to prepare her for the life she has now.

Maybe they can be trusted after all.

She lingers longer than she has since her arrival in the capital, enjoying the peace she has while she’s here, but as the sun reaches for the the edge of the water, she forces herself to stand. She doesn’t want to be out alone in the dark.

There is no Hound to rescue her again if she finds herself in trouble.

Right on cue, she hears the crack of a branch being broken. She spins around, but sees no one.

She is certain someone is out there, watching her.

Do they mean her harm?

She picks up her skirts and hurries down the path towards the castle. If she can get to the main path there may still be people walking around, someone to see -

A man bursts through the shrubbery and Sansa leaps back, wishing for her knife, or a very large stick.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the man says.

Sansa doesn’t believe that for a second, but then she takes a closer look at him. She _knows_ him. He’s a round man, in both body and face, and with twigs and leaves caught up in his hair he doesn’t look as intimidating as she first feared.

“Ser Dontos?” She asks. “Ser Dontos Hollard?”

He looks surprised, then pleased. “Yes, my lady. I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

How could she not when the necklace he gave her would cause her so much trouble? The necklace he is _going_ to give her, she realizes suddenly, and now she doesn’t know what she should do.

Refuse the necklace for no apparent reason? What if he gets upset? How much did he know of the plan? Is it better to take the necklace and toss it into the ocean? Bury it in the godswood?

She must take the necklace. Refusing would look strange, would draw Lord Baelish’s attention, something she desperately wants to avoid. She can decide how to dispose of it later. So long as she doesn’t wear it to the wedding--

She freezes.

_Joffrey’s wedding._

She’d forgotten how soon it was, and how horrible. She’ll need a plan.

But first -

Ser Dontos is staring at her, necklace outstretched, and she’s missed his entire speech. At least she knows what she’s supposed to say.

“It would be an honor to wear it,” Sansa says.

“Thank you, my lady,” Ser Dontos simpers. He gives every appearance of sincerity, even though she knows his whole story is a lie.

She wants to tell him that she didn’t spare his life for him to try and cause her so much pain, that Lord Baelish isn’t someone to be trusted.

But Lord Baelish’s advice about drunks and fools was sound, despite the source. She can tell Ser Dontos nothing she doesn’t want to risk being told to someone else, so she voices none of her recriminations.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past, Sansa's concerns about Margaery's wedding night, and Sansa and Tyrion's dubiously consensual sexual relationship.

Tyrion’s duties keep him busy all day, but they routinely breakfast together, and he tries to join her for supper when he can. Sansa is glad of his presence this evening, because she owes it to Margaery, as a friend, to help her in any way she can.

She does wait until they’ve finished the main course; no reason to spoil their appetites.

“Who do men talk to about what happens on their wedding night?” Sansa asks.

Podrick, thankfully, only has a napkin in his hands because he promptly drops it. Tyrion chokes a little on the food he just put in his mouth, but he washes it down with a large gulp of wine.

“Pardon?”

“Mothers talk to their daughters,” Sansa says. “And sometimes close married friends will talk to their unmarried friends. Who do men talk to?”

“It is not quite the same situation,” Tyrion says, words slow like he’s thinking them through as he says them. “Many men, uh, have been with a woman before their wedding night.”

“And the King?” Sansa asks, as delicately as one can ask such a question.

Fortunately, her husband has no sense of propriety. He just grimaces and shakes his head. “No. He is not like most boys.”

“So someone should have a talk with him,” Sansa says.

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Tyrion says. He pushes his plate away.

“Like you said, Joffrey is not like most boys.” She gives Tyrion a significant look. “But he is the King. There will be no excuse that will get him out of his bedding. The entire court is going to watch him bed Lady Margaery.”

“That poor girl,” Tyrion mutters.

Sansa isn’t sure she was meant to hear that so she pretends she didn’t. “Surely there must be some anxiety about performing in front of the entire court,” she says.

To her surprise, her husband blushes. “He, er, anxiety?”

“Of course. He might not know what to do.”

In the background, Podrick makes a choking noise.

“Right. Of course. Uh, it’s not that complicated, I’m sure he knows -”

“But he will want to give a kingly performance,” Sansa interrupts. She wonders if it’s time for another significant look. That seems a critical element in conversation like this. “Show his subjects that as King he excels at everything.”

“Okay…”

“They will want to see that he cherishes his wife as he cherishes the realm.” She can see that Tyrion is starting to understand. Finally. “It is an opportunity to show his wife and his people his care and gentleness.”

“I suppose,” Tyrion says. “Assuming he could convincingly fake either of those things.”

“He may need this explained to him,” Sansa allows. “A close friend, perhaps?”

Tyrion gives her a skeptical look. “Joffrey? Friends?”

“You’re right. It will have to be a family member.” She pretends to think. “Perhaps his Uncle Jaime?”

“Joffrey is close with my brother,” Tyrion says, which amuses him for some reason.

Probably the thought of anyone being close to Joffrey. Or Jaime. “Oh no,” Sansa says, “but he’s in the Kingsguard! If he’s never been with a woman, he can hardly advise Joffrey.”

Podrick drops his napkin again, and Tyrion succumbs to a coughing fit.

Sansa is starting to get frustrated, and decides to just get to her point. “That leaves you.”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

Impossible man. “Well, I could ask your father?”

“No. My wife and my father are not - just no.”

“You could speak to your father?”

Podrick has been searching for that napkin for a long time.

“I will speak to Joffrey,” Tyrion says, sounding pained. “I think that might actually be the less painful option, horrifying as that is.”

“Good,” Sansa says, magnanimously ignoring his complaining now that he’s doing what she wants.

Except then Tyrion reaches for the wine.

She nudges it out of reach. “I thought you were leaving.”

His mouth drops open. “What, right now?”

“The wedding is in a few days,” she reminds him.

He reaches for the wine.

She moves it.

They eye each other over the table.

“Podrick,” Tyrion says. “Fetch me a fresh decanter.”

Podrick makes it one step before Sansa says, “Podrick, would you really help your lord disobey his wife?”

Podrick freezes, eyes bouncing between her and Tyrion.

Tyrion folds his arms across his chest and gives Sansa a very serious look. Has she pushed him too far? “You truly care for Lady Margaery.”

Sansa doesn’t think there’s any danger in admitting that. “Yes. I don’t have many friends, and since I have no family, my friends are that much dearer to me.”

Tyrion looks pained, like he does whenever he’s reminded of her past. “And she has been a good friend to you?”

“She has.”

He sighs deeply. “Fine. You win. I will go have the most awkward conversation with my nephew I have ever had with anyone, ever, and then I am drinking my weight in wine. Podrick, make sure there is enough wine on this table when I get back to ensure I will not remember this night.”

Tyrion looks over at Sansa as if to say _with your permission, of course_ , which was just silly of him.

“That will have to wait,” she says primly. “Our night is not yet over. You can drink yourself into oblivion after.”

Podrick starts wheezing, and Tyrion closes his eyes briefly.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he tells Sansa, and leaves before she can determine whether he’s being serious or not.

That leaves her and Podrick in a silence that isn’t quite comfortable, and Sansa stares at her empty plate and Podrick stares at the floor until he finally ventures a quiet, “Dessert, my lady?”

“Not tonight, I think,” Sansa says.

“Very well. I’ll clean up then.”

He does so with none of his earlier clumsiness with the napkin, but hesitates before he leaves.

“Forgive me if it’s not my place, my lady, but you’re good for him.”

Sansa, startled, looks over at him.

“He’s very smart, and I think, sometimes, he forgets that other people are too. You remind him.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “He is a good lord to you?”

“Yes,” Podrick says. “Better than I had hoped.”

Sansa smiles, because that she understands. “Good. You may have the rest of the night to yourself once dinner is cleared.”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”

~*~

The next day, Sansa returns to the godswood for some serious thinking.

Hopefully, Tyrion’s words will have some impact on Joffrey, and Margaery’s wedding night will not be as terrible as it could be. He was in such a foul mood last night she hadn’t dared ask him how it went, afraid that he would find her a convenient target for his temper.

She needn’t have worried; he was as gentle and courteous as ever.

But with that out of the way, she needs to decide what to do with the necklace.

She turns it over in her hands, studies the cheap stones that hold a deadly poison.

She could wear it to the wedding, spare Margaery the entire ordeal of being Joffrey’s wife, and find some way to keep herself and her husband from being implicated.

She hates herself a little, for being selfish, but she isn’t going to do that. Too much could go wrong, and she won’t risk falling into Lord Baelish’s hands, or Ramsay’s, not even for Margaery. Margaery is smart, she knows what Joffrey is, and with Sansa around, Joffrey might not even want to torment her.

Sansa wants to survive, wants to be safe, and maybe one day to be happy, and for that she needs Tyrion to protect her, not locked in a cell or executed for regicide. So she has to protect him from this.

How best to do that?

The simplest thing would be to throw it away, pretend that she lost it if anyone asks. And she’s tempted. But the necklace is one small thing that represents a much larger threat. And she will never have a better opportunity to strike at Lord Baelish, not when she is literally holding evidence of his treason in her hands.

Could she tell her husband about the poison? Pretend she accidentally discovered it? No, he’ll never believe that, and Lord Baelish is slippery enough to see that she punished instead of him.

Maybe if she just gives him the necklace, lets him discover the poison for himself? But this is hardly the sort of jewelry a wife gifts her husband, and she certainly doesn’t want him to think that she’s trying to murder him. And how would he make the connection to Lord Baelish? There’s nothing to suggest - oh.

 _Suggest_.

That night, she braids her hair, changes into her dressing gown, and fastens the necklace around her neck. Her husband must have had a busy day, because he doesn’t make it back for supper. She’s too anxious to embroider or sit by the window and watch lights of the city, and she ends up sitting on their bed fidgeting with the necklace.

He finally returns and, as usual, goes straight to the side table and pours himself a glass of wine.

“You’re back late,” she says. She’d made the mistake of asking him about his day only once. There are limits to her ability to fake polite interest, and she knows quite as much about being Master of Coin as she ever cares to.

He jumps, then turns to look at her. “Uh.”

She tries not to frown. This is a slight disruption to their usual routine, but it’s not like a mystery where they’re going to end up, and there’s nothing improper about her being in her own bed.

Then she notices that she’s somehow caught her dressing gown awkwardly, and it’s slipped off her shoulder.

She blushes, but really, it’s just her shoulder, it’s fine, and besides, this is her husband. He’s seen everything before. And, she reminds herself, she has a mission.

“Finish your wine,” Sansa says, trying to sound mysterious and alluring, “then come join me.”

“Perhaps I could join you then finish my wine,” Tyrion says. “Both options have their merits.”

He smiles at her and, because her dressing gown is still mostly on, Sansa finds it in her to smile back. “I would not presume to tell you what to do, my lord,” she says and he laughs outright.

“No, you’ll just confiscate my wine and appropriate my squire. Nice job you did there. He’s still jumpy.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sansa says. She takes a deep breath and shrugs out of her dressing gown.

Tyrion looks surprised, just as he has every night she has done this since their wedding night. He doesn’t seem to understand her commitment to having a child.

She immediately pulls the sheet around herself, because she’s not like Tyrion who can wander around unclothed with ease. Even if he’s her husband and has seen her unclothed, it’s different when they’re in their bed and when they’re out of it.

Tyrion wanders over, vest undone, wine glass in hand. He somehow manages to settle next to her without upsetting the glass, a feat she is secretly impressed by. “Or, perhaps, I’ll join you _and_ finish my wine.”

“If you spill on me I’ll be most displeased,” Sansa says.

“That idea has possibilities,” Tyrion says.

“What?” Sansa asks, but he gets distracted.

“What’s this?” He asks, fingers brushing her necklace.

“Oh.” She fumbles for the clasp like she’s embarrassed that she’s forgotten. “A necklace.”

“Yes,” Tyrion says, “I can see that. It’s quite pretty.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from Lord Baelish.”

Tyrion goes still beside her, and Sansa’s heart skips a beat, worried that she’s miscalculated and that jealousy will make him cruel.

“He was quite close with my mother,” Sansa says, hoping to repair some of the damage she might have done.

“Most men don’t give jewelry to girls out of their affection for their mother,” Tyrion says. He sets down his wine, then takes the necklace from her hand and puts it on the table next to the bed.

Sansa doesn’t think she’ll see the necklace again. Better, she thinks Tyrion will be bothered enough by the “gift” to investigate further.

She smiles at her husband, lets him think it’s because she’s glad he’s in their bed with her, and lets him do what must be done.

~*~

Sansa’s sewing circle with the other ladies of the court is interrupted by Cersei demanding the services of the women.

“I need keen eyes and keener hands to make sure the royal family is properly dressed for the wedding,” Cersei says, and several of the women light up at the prospect of sewing for such a grand event.

Sansa doubts they will be allowed anywhere near what Joffrey or even Tommen gets to wear and allows herself a smile at the thought of them embroidering napkins for the guests to sully and step on.

“Not you,” Cersei says when Sansa rises. “I’m sure you have your own dress to finish. It’s hard to find time for yourself once you’re married.”

Several of the women giggle, and Sansa wills herself not to blush.

“You are too kind,” she says, clutching her sewing hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. She bobs a quick curtsey and flees before Cersei can change her mind.

She’s in such a rush to get back to her chambers that she doesn’t realize something’s wrong until she’s just outside the doors. There are raised voices on the other side, a man and a woman, and she recognizes Tyrion’s voice of course, then realizes the other is Shae.

Sansa bursts through the doors. “What is going on in here?” she demands.

Shae and Tyrion both freeze, the two of them standing close, clearly in a heated argument. They both look at each other, then at Sansa, worried.

Sansa puts her sewing down on the table and rounds on her husband. “You raise your voice to _my_ handmaiden?”

“Sansa,” he says, “My lady -”

“No,” she tells him, because this power is hers. Women are in charge of the household. Handmaidens and servants fall under her control. And she’s talked to him about Shae, how she’s still learning, and made it clear that she’s important to Sansa anyway. “If she needs to be disciplined, you come to me. You will not shout at her or threaten her again.”

“I wasn’t threatening her,” Tyrion says but Sansa remains unmoved. In her experience, when men raise their voices, threats are quick to follow. “Very well. I apologize, my lady.”

“Good,” Sansa says. “Now I would like to speak with my handmaiden.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says.

There’s a moment where no one moves or says anything, and Sansa gives Tyrion a pointed look.

“Oh,” he says. “Yes. I see. I should talk to Bronn about the City Watch’s preparations for the wedding.”

Sansa waits until he leaves to turn her attention to Shae, the woman not looking nearly as contrite as Sansa expected her to.

“I know I have been remiss in my lessons,” Sansa says, “but I would think that even the newest of handmaidens would know to _never_ raise their voice to a lord.”

“My lady -”

“We will have to revisit your etiquette training,” Sansa says. “I can intervene this one time for you, because Lord Tyrion is my husband, but if you ever do something like this to another lord or lady in this castle they will punish you.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and lets some of her anger flow from her body. Gentler, she adds, “And we will also have lessons on how to avoid unwanted attention. If lords and ladies don’t notice you, they cannot bother you. Would you like to tell me what this fight was about?”

“A misunderstanding,” Shae says.

Sansa doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t push. “Very well. It has been a stressful morning. I think I would like to take a bath.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Shae sounds as demure as she ever has, and Sansa didn’t mean to break her spirit, just warn her. She reaches out a hand to touch Shae’s arm. “I don’t carry a blade like you, but I will do everything I can to protect you as you protect me.”

Shae smiles and squeezes Sansa’s hand before going to start the bath.

~*~

Sansa and her husband are finishing breakfast when there is a knock at the door. They look at each other, wondering which of them is expecting company, and Podrick goes to answer the knock.

There’s a young boy, face flushed, proudly holding up a note, and Podrick exchanges the note for a coin and brings the message to the table.

“The seal of the King?” Tyrion asks, and Sansa swallows back her instinctual fear.

A summons by the King is never good. She tells herself she is a Lannister now, she is protected, but her fear doesn’t abate until Tyrion says, “Court is being convened to discuss preparations for security for the royal wedding.”

She doesn’t know what that means, but it can’t have anything to do with her.

“Isn’t that a matter for the King’s Guard and the City Watch?” she asks, returning to her breakfast sausage. “Why would he want the court’s assistance?”

“My nephew is a mystery even to those closest to him,” Tyrion says. He sets the message down. “But, my curiousity is piqued. We will answer the summons. It’s not like we have any other plans for the day.”

Sansa’s only plans are to work on her dress for the Margaery’s wedding and to think of some way to prevent Tyrion from being named cupbearer, just in case.

Her only plan so far is to keep Joffrey’s attention firmly focused on her, which should be simple enough. It’s getting rid of his attention that’s the problem. But that will require both subjecting herself to Joffrey’s torment and her husband not interfering on her behalf.

She wishes she had allies besides Margaery, someone who could help her deflect Joffrey’s attention or distract her husband. She doesn’t think she can rely on Bronn or Podrick to assist her the way they had at her wedding, because they won’t be permitted to sit anywhere near them at the King’s wedding.

Another visit to the godswood is in order. She does her best thinking there.

“Podrick,” Sansa says, realizing that an appearance at court means she must look like Lady Lannister, “could you find Shae and ask her to come, please? I wouldn’t want to disappoint the King by not looking my best.”

“This is going to be a meaningless show of power,” Tyrion says. “I doubt he’ll even notice us.”

“And Podrick?” Sansa says and he pauses in the doorway. “Please hurry back. I believe your lord is going to need your assistance to look _his_ best.”

“It’s really not going to matter,” Tyrion says.

“Appearances are everything,” Sansa tells him. “We’re going to look our best before the court and our King, because anything less would draw attention. I know you have certain privileges being uncle to the King, but I have found it best to avoid his notice.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says, uncomfortable. “Yes. Well, you are my wife, so it is only proper that I heed your advice in this matter. Of course, it might draw my father’s notice, seeing me behave as a Lannister son should.”

“Raising yourself in your father’s estimation can only be a good thing,” Sansa says.

“Clearly, you don’t know my father.”

Sansa looks pointedly at his plate. “Finish your breakfast, my lord, we have a long day ahead of us.”

~*~

It’s strange to be back in the throne room after everything that’s happened to her. She’s no longer Sansa Stark, pleading for her father’s life, or Sansa Stark keeping a brave face as Joffrey renounces her and their engagement. She is Sansa Lannister, and she stands at her husband’s side, proud and safe.

There is whispering around them, lords and ladies speculating why they’ve been called here, wondering if a threat has been made against the King’s life, because why else would he tell them of his security plans for the wedding? Has Stannis returned? Has the Targaryen crossed the ocean? Are all of them in danger, not just the King?

There is a huff of laughter next to her as Lord Varys joins her and her husband. “The King likes his grand entrances, but this kind of speculation does no good for the realm.”

“Do you have any speculations to share?” Tyrion asks.

“I do not. I had hoped as uncle to the King you might have heard something.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “The summons was a surprise to us as well. Perhaps the Tyrells have requested additional guards in order to raise the cost of the wedding even higher.”

“It is turning into quite the costly event,” Varys says. He seems to notice Sansa paying attention and adds, “As it should be. There should be no expense spared for the King’s wedding.”

“As Master of Coin I would have to disagree with you,” Tyrion says.

Lord Varys, perhaps realizing they’re venturing into dangerous territory, turns to Sansa. “Good day, Lady Sansa. I hope you are well.”

“I am, Lord Varys, and you?”

“I am curious, but I believe that will resolve itself quite soon. Who knew there could be so much excitement around a royal wedding?”

“I have found that the capital enjoys making excitement where there otherwise would be none,” Sansa says. “It is the only way to combat boredom.”

“Are you bored, my lady?” Tyrion asks, but it’s Varys who looks more interested in the answer.

“Of course not,” she answers. “I’m making my own dress for the wedding.” She smiles at Varys. “See? The wedding keeps us all entertained.”

“As it should. I heard there was supposed to be a tournament to celebrate the wedding, but there were fears that the Knight of the Flowers might sustain a serious injury before his wedding.”

“Ser Loras?” Sansa asks. “No, he is the best knight in the land. No one would be able to harm him.”

Both them look at her, and she drops her gaze.

“Of course, if my husband were a knight, he would be the best in the land.”

Varys chuckles again.

“Sweet,” Tyrion says, “but untrue. You will not hurt my feelings if you cheer for Ser Loras in tournaments. I, however, will place my money on safe winners. The Mountain, for example.”

Sansa can’t help her frown at the mention of the man who tortured the Hound so callously as a child. The Hound sometimes frightened her, but he did his best to protect her, and she doesn’t like anyone who enjoys causing pain in others.

Before Tyrion and Varys can continue their speculation, the side doors of the court open, and Joffrey struts in.

Cersei, already seated at her place beside the Iron Throne, smiles when she sees him. Lord Tywin, who is standing to the right of the throne, doesn’t look pleased.

Does he not know what Joffrey’s about to do either?

Or does he know and couldn’t stop it?

Both possibilities are terrifying. Joffrey’s threats from her previous life, that the King can have whoever he pleases and Sansa isn’t safe in Tyrion’s bed, haven’t manifested here, and she’s sure it’s Lord Tywin’s influence. Is he losing control of Joffrey?

She shudders. She needs to get pregnant and get out of King’s Landing, to put a few leagues between herself and Joffrey, and she needs to do it soon.

“My lords and ladies,” Joffrey says, “Thank you for being here. I wish to discuss a matter of great importance. As you all know, my wedding approaches, and certain details must be in place before it can happen. One of those, is the protection of your King. Is Ser Jaime here?”

The crowd parts, and Jaime Lannister approaches the throne. He kneels, careful to keep his sword from clanging on the stone floor.

“Ser Jaime, as many of you know, has returned to us from the North, having escaped the traitors with his life; though, not with all of his limbs.”

Sansa can feel a few sets of eyes on her, but she holds her head high. She is not sorry that Jaime Lannister was injured. He was captured in battle trying to destroy her brother’s forces, then released by her mother in exchange for Sansa and Arya’s freedom. And now Sansa’s mother and brother and sister are dead, Sansa still isn’t free, and Ser Jaime is reunited with his family. He should be grateful all he lost was a hand.

“He has served as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but given recent developments, that is no longer appropriate.”

“No,” Tyrion says, quiet enough that only Sansa hears him.

Her husband looks horrified, but Sansa doesn’t understand yet what’s happening.

“After all, how can a man without his sword hand protect his King?”

Oh, Sansa thinks, as Ser Jaime’s head drops, understanding what is happening. She can feel tendrils of sympathy for the man on his knees before Joffrey, because she has been in his place many times, and she will never forget her fear when he ordered her stripped and beaten in front of the court. Nor will she forget how the only person who dared to help her was Tyrion.

She looks at her husband again, wonders if there’s anything to be done for his brother.

“I unname you Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and rename you Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock,” Joffrey proclaims, “returning to you the titles and lands that are your birthright. Further, I name Ser Meryn Trant the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

No, Sansa thinks, desperate for someone to put a stop to this. Jaime _has_ to be in the Kingsguard. He can’t be allowed to have Casterly Rock. That’s supposed to be _hers_. It’s supposed to be given to her son when she has one. If Ser Jaime is reinstated as heir, then what does that leave for her and her family?

She looks to Lord Tywin, desperate for him to intervene, but he is as cold and still as the throne next to him. And really, why would he intervene? He is getting what he wants, an heir, and better for his son to rule Casterly Rock than hers. But where does that leave her? Powerless and adrift, as usual.

Everyone is forced to watch as Ser Jaime fumbles with his cloak, his left hand unused to the fastenings, until finally he can lay it at Joffrey’s feet. She can understand that this is humiliating for him, but she can’t help envying him for getting everything she wanted, everything that was promised to her. And judging by his dragging steps and stricken expression, he doesn’t even appreciate it.

“Wait,” Joffrey calls, and the crowd obligingly parts so Ser Jaime is alone and in plain view of the King. “Thank me for making you heir again.”

Cersei’s gasp is loud enough in the silence of the room to earn a glare from her son, and Sansa thinks Lord Tywin’s eye twitches. Though whether it’s Cersei’s outburst, Joffrey’s pettiness, or the spectacle being made of his eldest son, Sansa couldn’t guess.

“Oh my,” Varys murmurs.

For a moment, Sansa thinks Ser Jaime is going to refuse, but then he grits out a terse, “Thank you, Your Grace,” before storming out of the hall.

Satisfied, Joffrey sinks back into the throne.

Sansa wishes she could let him die at his wedding.

~*~

After they’re dismissed, Sansa goes straight to the godswood where she allows herself to weep for the future she can no longer have.

What happened that caused Joffrey to take Ser Jaime’s cloak that didn’t happen last time she lived through these events? Why would he do it? What is she going to do without Casterly Rock to reach for?

She will not carry a child to term here. Joffrey will kill it in her belly with one of his torments, and if by some miracle it lives to be born, that will only give him the opportunity to use her child against her. There must be somewhere else they can go. The Lannisters are one of the richest families in all the kingdoms, there has to be another castle they hold, some other land, somewhere.

If only she could take her baby and her husband North! No one would try to harm her there. Her baby would be welcomed. _She_ would be welcomed.

But Winterfell will soon belong to the Boltons, which makes it even less safe than the capital.

Everything would’ve been fine if Ser Jaime hadn’t returned. Her plan would’ve _worked_.

She’s still in a sour mood when she returns for dinner, and she isn’t pleased when she enters the room to see that they have guests.

Specifically, _Jaime Lannister_ and the knight who brought him back from the North.

“Ah, Sansa,” Tyrion greets as Sansa tries to force her face to smile. “My brother had a trying day so I thought I would ask him to join us for dinner. And Lady Brienne.”

“Being humiliated in front of the court?” Sansa asks, “I cannot imagine how difficult that must be. Of course our table is yours.” Before Tyrion can scold her for her tone, she addresses Brienne. “Lady? I was told you were a knight.”

“Ladies are not permitted to be knights,” Brienne explains. “I am trained in the sword and other weapons, but I don’t have the official title.”

Sansa bites back both a rude response and a kinder one about how Arya would love to meet this woman and instead takes her seat at the table. “I hope you’ll excuse my appearance. I would normally freshen up before dinner, but - “ she looks around as if to say, there are strangers in my room.

“You’re at a table with a dwarf, a cripple, and the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” Ser Jaime says. “I think you’re good.”

“What my brother means to say,” Tyrion says, glaring at his brother, “Is that you look beautiful, my wife.”

Sansa reaches a hand towards Lady Brienne. “You aren’t ugly. Perhaps if you wore dresses men wouldn’t be as rude.”

The lady is in men’s clothes, and while Sansa is determined not to judge for that preference, she does think that _nicer_ clothes might help her. Which makes her think, “Or, if men’s clothes are what you prefer, there are fashionable ones. Ser Loras could help you.”

Ser Jaime opens his mouth to speak, but only a grunt comes out and he glares at his brother. “What was that for?”

“I am content with my clothes, but thank you, my lady,” Brienne says. “I hope my time in King’s Landing will be short, and I will be allowed to return to my horse and the life of the open road.” She looks at Ser Jaime, a conversation passing between them in looks that Sansa doesn’t understand.

Jaime huffs. “We have already had this conversation. She is safe. She is happy.” He looks at Sansa. “Tell this woman that you’re happy being married to my brother.”

“Oh yes,” Brienne says, “because _that_ will tempt her to tell the truth. Lady Sansa, you may have heard that I was tasked with returning Ser Jaime to the capital.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, “and all of House Lannister is in your debt.”

Jaime sits up straighter at that, like she’s done something to interest him.

“That was not my only task,” Brienne continues, oblivious. “Your mother brokered a deal in which I would return Ser Jaime to his family in return for you and your sister being returned to yours.”

Sansa’s entire body goes still, the smile slipping from her face. She’s heard the gossip, of course, but she couldn’t have anticipated Lady Brienne bringing it up, to her face, during dinner with Lannisters! “My sister is dead,” she says, words wooden but at least she is capable of speaking. “And I am with my family.”

She reaches across the table to touch her husband’s hand. Ser Jaime looks intrigued, but Brienne soldiers on.

“Your mother -”

“Was a traitor,” Sansa interrupts even though it’s rude. “She married a traitor and fathered a traitor, and she had a death fi-fitting for a traitor.” Sansa drops her hands to her lap to hide how they tremble. “I am a Lannister, and I am loyal to my lord and his house.”

If Brienne pushes any more, Sansa’s afraid she’s going to cry at the dinner table. She should be stronger than this. She _needs_ to be stronger than this. She can’t afford to show disloyalty.

“Well,” Ser Jaime says, “That puts my problems in perspective. Brienne, pass me another one of those rolls.”

Brienne slams the basket next to Jaime’s missing hand. “Do you need me to butter it for you as well, _ser_?”

Sansa’s hands flutter, useless, in her lap. She can’t be here. Her dress is too tight. The air is too warm. Her mother sent this woman to save her, freed the Kingslayer for her, and died stupidly believing that Jaime Lannister would keep his word. And now Sansa has to sit beside him at table and make polite conversation, while this false knight rips away her masks, forces her to confront the truth.

Because she does love her family, of course she does, no matter what she is forced to say.

She is a greater traitor than any of them ever were. A traitor to both her families.

“I -” her throat is too thick for words to make it through.

“Yes,” Tyrion says. “Podrick, I believe my wife would like to visit the godswood. She’s a very religious person,” he adds, for the benefit of Jaime and Brienne.

“It’s dark out, my lord,” Podrick says, confused.

“Which is why you’ll fetch Bronn on your way, and you’ll both keep watch to see that she is not disturbed while she prays. The gods are still there in the dark, Podrick.”

“I - yes, of course,” Podrick says.

Sansa, overcome with emotion and unsure of how to express it, drops to her knees before her husband’s chair. “Thank you, my lord,” she says, voice shaky, but hers again.

“No need for that,” Tyrion says. “Go with Podrick. Don’t stay out all night. I’ll worry until you return.”

She bobs her head and lets Podrick lead her from the room.

~*~

She doesn’t spend long in the godswood, knowing that it was a privilege that she was allowed out here at night. She kneels by the heart tree and allows herself to mourn her family before picking herself up, brushing off her skirts and asking Bronn to return her to her chambers.

She has had her moment of weakness and it is time to be strong again.

“So you talk to a tree and it listens?” Bronn asks as they make their way back to the castle.

Podrick makes a strangled sort of sound like he knows this conversation is going nowhere good but doesn’t know how to stop it.

“I pray to the gods,” Sansa says. “I doubt they listen.”

“I’ve never been one for religion.”

That’s not a surprise to her. “The South has different traditions than we do up North,” she says neutrally.

“There are probably more trees there,” Bronn says. “You have these god trees everywhere?”

“Godswoods,” Sansa corrects. “Every major town and castle has one. I’ve heard rumors that there is a Great Tree, the First Tree, that grows beyond the Wall, but no one has ever ventured that far and survived. Our septa used to tell us stories about the First Tree and the First Men who worshipped it. You’d probably think they’re silly.”

Bronn shrugs, agreeing, and the rest of the walk to her rooms is quiet.

She thanks both men for escorting her and enters her chamber, glad to see that their company has departed.

Tyrion sits at his desk, parchment spread around him while he works by candlelight, but he looks up when she enters, and she thinks he might even look pleased at her return.

“Was the godswood peaceful?”

“Yes, thank you. I - I shouldn’t have needed to leave, but thank you for letting me. I will be better.”

He sets his work aside and beckons her closer until she’s standing between his legs. It means she towers over him, but she still feels small as he clasps her hands in his.

“You are allowed to be sad,” he tells her. “Terrible things have happened to you, and you have every right to mourn them.”

She doesn’t, though. She cannot show sympathy towards the Starks. She cannot be branded a traitor.

She can’t say any of that, thought. “I don’t want Lady Brienne to take me away,” she says instead.

“She won’t,” Tyrion promises. “You are my wife. You belong at my side as I belong at yours.”

Her husband has been kind beyond expectation tonight, and she wishes she knew how to repay him. If she truly is a Lannister now then she must make sure to always pay her debts.

She looks over his shoulder at his papers. “Will you be working late tonight?”

“No, I’m finished,” he says. “Keeping myself awake until your return. Probably shouldn’t have chosen finances to entertain myself with. Almost put myself to sleep.”

Sansa laughs softly and tugs on his hands. “I hope you’re not too tired, my lord.”

“Hope I’m not…” he trails off. “Sansa, wife, we don’t have to.”

“ _Husband_ ,” she responds, “I believe we do.”

“You’ve had a long day,” he says, letting her pull him to his feet. “Surely you’re tired.”

“You do all the work,” she says. “I simply have to lie there.”

“Yes,” he says, a frown on his face.

She touches his cheek, more forward than she usually is. “I’m still dressed for court, my lord. I’m going to need assistance with my dress.”

“I - yes. Of course. Your dress.”

Sansa turns her back to her husband to hide her smile and lifts her hair up and out of the way so he can reach the ties. She stands close enough to the bed so he can stand on the mattress and reach. It’s strange, his fingers on the stays, unfamiliar in ways that hers and Shae’s are not.

She can’t help but be pleased that he fumbles with the ties, because it means he doesn’t undress many ladies. She’s not completely ignorant, she knows of his reputation, knows that he has been with other women before her, but maybe not quite as many women as the stories would suggest.

She’s no stranger to the way the court enjoys spreading lies.

“This is a very nice dress,” Tyrion tells her as he eases the laces free until the dress slips from her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She steps out of the dress and removes her undershift. “I made it myself.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says.

He might have had more to say, but Sansa turns around then, completely bare, and his eyes drop to her chest then hurriedly rise to her face. She thinks he might be blushing.

She moves past him to get into their bed. “Hurry and undress, my husband,” she tells him. “I might fall asleep if you dawdle.”

She leaves the sheet tucked around her waist to give him added incentive to hurry.

It works.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some references to Sansa's traumatic past, and other people getting married who don't especially want to marry each other.

Joffrey’s wedding is just as Sansa remembered it, except this time she has the pleasure of Lord Varys’s company as she and Tyrion make their way from the Sept to the feast. She hadn’t realized how close Lord Varys and Tyrion were, but they appear to be friends. Or, as close to friends as anyone gets in King’s Landing.

“A lovely ceremony,” Lord Varys says, falling into step with them.

“Weddings are all the same,” Tyrion says.

“Did you enjoy it, my dear?” Varys asks Sansa.

“I hope Queen Margaery can be as happy in her marriage as I am in mine,” Sansa answers. “There was something strange to me, though.”

“Oh?” Varys leans closer and Sansa thinks there’s truth to the stories they tell about how Lord Varys has no interest in women or titles or land, that the only thing that interests him is secrets.

“Where was Lord Baelish? I thought every lord and lady in the city would be in attendance.”

“He is in the Vale,” Varys tells her. “The Eyrie, to be exact, preparing for his own wedding.”

“No wedding should be more important than the King’s,” Sansa says.

“I hear his betrothed can be quite...demanding,” Varys says. “No offense to your ladyship, of course. I do believe she is a relative of yours.”

“Aunt on my mother’s side,” Sansa says. She remembers how hard Lady Arryn gripped her hands, how crazed her eyes were when she tried to throw Sansa through the Moon Door. “We’re not very close.”

“It’s a good match,” Tyrion says. “Or, it will be if it keeps that man and his scheming far from here.”

“You don’t think it’s an odd match?” Sansa asks. “Everyone always told me how he was in love with my mother. And now he’s marrying her sister.”

“Perhaps they look alike,” Tyrion says. “I don’t quite remember. When I was in the Eyrie, Lady Arryn tried to have me killed.”

“Some men,” Varys says, ignoring Tyrion, “latch onto the second best thing when they cannot have what their heart truly desires.”

“But,” Sansa allows confusion to color her words. “If he is marrying my aunt because he couldn’t marry my mother, then that necklace -” she looks at Tyrion “-that wasn’t a gift given out of kindness.”

Tyrion takes her hand.

“And I wore it!” Sansa says. She half-heartedly tries to pull her hand away. “My lord, if I’d known-”

“You didn’t,” Tyrion says, holding her hand tighter. “The necklace has been taken care of, and if Petyr Baelish knows what’s good for him he’ll stay in the Eyrie with his wife. Maybe the brat will push _him_ out the Moon Door.”

This is not a topic Sansa wants to dwell on and she’s grateful when they reach the gardens, because it’s the perfect opportunity to change the subject.

“Look at the rose bushes behind the royal table,” she says, pointing with her free hand. “Such a beautiful flower. It’s the perfect sigil for Queen Margaery.”

“She’s a stag now,” Tyrion reminds her. “Or is it stag again, since she was previously married to Renly?”

“The flowers are pretty,” Sansa says firmly.

“I think this is my cue to join the lesser lords and ladies,” Lord Varys says. “Enjoy the feast.”

“There is little hope of that,” Tyrion says, quiet enough for only the three of them to catch. “Unless of course the wine is flowing.”

Sansa gives him a disapproving look, which he ignores, and he escorts her to their table. It’s up on the dais with the royal table, but not as high, and gives the illusion of privacy. If only Sansa could believe that they would be left on their own.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Tyrion says, when they reach their table to see Ser Jaime already there.

“I’m not a member of the royal family so I’m not allowed up there,” Ser Jaime says. “I was hoping to spend the day far away from the circus but, well, I’m a proper Lannister again, so here I am.”

“Good,” Tyrion says, ushering Sansa into the seat between Ser Jaime and himself. “My wife will have someone to talk to now when I’m too drunk to speak.”

Lovely, Sansa thinks. She hasn’t spoken to Ser Jaime since the night she fled to the godswood, and she can’t imagine what they’ll have to talk about during the feast.

“You’re never too drunk to speak,” Ser Jaime says. “You just grow looser with your tongue. Something we should probably avoid today.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass of wine. “Our King is going to be too distracted by his bride to bother with us.”

“Not possible,” Sansa says. She takes the decanter and offers it to Jaime. “Would you like some wine, ser?”

“Oh, call him Jaime,” Tyrion says. “He’s your brother by law now, and if you two are going to conspire against me you might as well be on familiar terms.”

Sansa is _not_ going to call him Jaime.

“I would love a glass of wine,” Ser Jaime says. “Would you like me to call you Sansa?”

She doesn’t spill a drop as she pours him a glass. “We’re family now.”

She pours one for herself as well and takes a healthy swallow, bracing herself against the taste. “Like I said, in my experience, King Joffrey is never too distracted for his favorite subjects. And while we’re on this subject.” She sets the decanter down and fixes Tyrion with her full attention. “When he does turn to us, if it is me he addresses, let him.”

“My lady -”

Sansa doesn’t have the luxury of letting him protect her today. She _must_ keep Tyrion from Joffrey’s notice. If, by some chance, Lord Baelish has formed a new plan to kill Joffrey, she will not let Tyrion be part of it. “I would rather him humiliate me than you.”

“We’ve both had practice with it,” Tyrion points out.

“Yes, but I know how to hold my tongue,” she says. “You would provoke him on his wedding day, in front of a crowd so large he would have to retaliate.”

“The girl has a point,” Ser Jaime says.

“The _lady_ ,” Sansa tells him, “is your sister by law. And is often right.”

She takes a prim sip of her wine and lets the men gawk.

~*~

Sansa had somehow forgotten how awful the wedding feast was. True, there was no end of horrors after she was “rescued” from King’s Landing, and it’s not so surprising they eclipsed this one in her mind. But when Joffrey calls for his entertainment and the dwarfs run out in their costumes, she goes stiff in her chair.

She’s about to rewitness the mockery of her brother’s death.

This time around, she lets her gaze wander as the lewd show is performed. The people in the crowd have smiles frozen on their faces, like they know they’re supposed to be amused, like they _have_ to find this entertaining but don’t.

The only people who are outright laughing are Joffrey and Cersei, and Sansa thinks it says all that needs to be said about the two of them that they find it funny.

Queen Margaery looks queasy, smiling only when Joffrey turns to her to see how she’s enjoying it. Sansa looks away before Joffrey can make eye contact with her.

Next to her, Tyrion bids Podrick to pay the dwarves well when this is over, and Sansa feels a blinding flash of hate that her husband could be enjoying this, but when she looks over he has a smile on his face she can now recognize as not being genuine.

It isn’t the smile he gives her when she ventures a joke or the smile he gives Podrick when the squire does something silly. This is his court smile. His _lying_ smile.

He doesn’t find it funny at all. She wonders what else she’s thought he’s enjoyed that he actually didn’t.

The dwarf with the wolf’s head begins to do something she can’t even look at and she drops her gaze to the table, eyes burning. Her brother shouldn’t be disrespected this way.

But then she realizes something.

This is more than a just a cruel joke to Joffrey. It’s a celebration. A _victory_ dance.

He is so blind.

Stannis was beaten at the Blackwater, but he wasn’t defeated.

Her brother was murdered at Moat Cailin, but the North hasn’t been subdued.

It could come together around Robb’s death or her father’s death. It could come together around the notion that the North should be free from the South. It could come together around _Stannis_.

The war is not over and the kingdoms, the _King_ , will never be safe until the war is ended and North and South are reunited again.

And she’s the key to the North.

It cannot be brought back into the fold without her.

Forget Casterly Rock, she could go _home_.

“Lady Sansa, did my performance bore you?”

Sansa’s jerked from her thoughts by Joffrey’s voice. Stupid to get distracted, stupid to not pay attention.

She raises her gaze to her tormenter and forces a smile to her lips. “I apologize, my lord. I fear that my constitution is too weak to find humor here. I lived through the siege on our city, like most everyone here, and we heard the fighting as the usurper tried to sack our city. I heard the stories of what would happen to us if he succeeded, and I heard the soldiers fighting bravely to protect us. Soldiers led by you, your Grace.” She looks away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I apologize for finding the stories of bravery and valor better than this mockery of what was a great victory for our city.”

The garden is silent after she speaks, and she wonders if she said too much. Too great a victory against Joffrey only means he will come back harder against her.

“A mockery of us?” He scoffs. “You stupid girl. It’s a mockery of Stannis. And Renly. And that traitor you call brother.”

All eyes swing back to her. She should duck her head and let his attention go elsewhere. The Stark blood that still flows through her veins keeps her head held high.

“He is not who I call brother,” she says. She reaches out to clasp Jaime’s shoulder. “It is Ser Jaime I now call brother. And your mother, Lady Cersei, who I call sister.”

Cersei looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. Whole.

Joffrey doesn’t look much better. “You -”

“Oh look!” Queen Margaery exclaims, leaping to her feet. “Pie!”

Joffrey’s attention is diverted and Sansa is allowed to relax in her seat.

“If you want to run away to the godswood, I would be honored to escort you before it’s my turn to be called out by the King,” Ser Jaime says.

Sansa doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“That’s what you call holding your tongue?” Tyrion asks from her other side.

She doesn’t appreciate either of them judging her. She stood up to the King without causing an incident or suffering too much humiliation. This is a victory.

She pushes Tyrion’s wine glass closer to him. “I thought you were drinking until you couldn’t speak?”

“Right,” Tyrion says. “Yes.”

He picks up his wine glass and neither of them disturb her for the rest of the wedding.

~*~

By the time they’re preparing for Cersei’s wedding, Sansa thinks she’ll be glad if she never has to go to a wedding again in her life. Her fingers hurt from all the sewing she’s done, and she’s actually tired of getting dressed up.

“I could have an illness,” Sansa says. A look of pain flashes across Tyrion’s face and she remembers that she _had_ been sick. Quite gravely in fact. “Um, you could be sick?”

“Sansa,” Tyrion says, his voice heavy. “There is something I must tell you.”

“It was a joke,” she says. “In poor taste. I shouldn’t have made it. I’m excited for your sister’s wedding. I’m sure she’ll be beautiful. It -”

“Sansa,” Tyrion says again.

He approaches and motions for her to sit on their bed. She’s already in her gown for the wedding, a dark blue with silver embroidery throughout it. It’s a dress of the Northern fashion, but she is beginning to dream of going back to Winterfell and those dreams have found their way into her clothing.

She sits, and he comes to stand next to her, more serious than she has ever seen him.

He fusses with his sleeves instead of talking, and she wants to still his hands, because he’s going to muss his outfit, but she doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t know how far she’s allowed to reach.

“It’s about the necklace Lord Baelish gave you,” Tyrion says. “Was it a gift directly from him?”

She assumed he’d thrown it away and forgotten about it Did he find the poison? Does he suspect her of plotting murder? She should’ve tossed it in the ocean. She got too confident, overreached.

“No,” she says. “A man approached me in the godswood. He said he was a knight but he stunk of wine.” She doesn’t have to fake the way her nose wrinkles. “He gave it to me. I asked him who I was to him to deserve such a gift, but he told me he was a messenger. From Lord Baelish.”

“I see,” Tyrion says. “Lord Baelish is not a good man. Is this news to you?”

Hardly, she thinks but she says, “He was...overly affectionate at times, but my mother always said he was like family. They grew up together. She thought they were like brother and sister. He thought…” Sansa trails off.

“Yes,” Tyrion says. He clears his throat. “I have been suspicious of him for some time. Lord Varys has been as well. I brought the necklace to him as a trusted friend to see what he thought.”

“Do you think he stole it?” Sansa asks. If they discovered anything then she must be innocent of what they’ve found. “I - it doesn’t seem likely. It was a cheap thing.” She blushes. “That’s a terrible thing to say. But it’s true.”

“It’s okay,” Tyrion assures her. “And you’re right. It was cheap. We broke one of the stones.” He pauses. “We found a powder in them. No, not just a powder.” Tyrion grips her hands tightly. “Sansa, there was poison in that necklace.”

Sansa lets her eyes go wide. “Poison? But - you said Lord Baelish _liked_ me. Why would he want me dead?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Tyrion says. “If we can find the knight who gave you the necklace maybe we could have proof against him, but I doubt we will. What’s important, is that you’re alive. The poison was a nasty one, and we think because the stones were cheap and you wore the necklace around your neck some of the poison got into you. Not enough to kill you, but,” here he takes a deep breath, “do you remember when you were sick?”

When she first came here? The time sickness? They think the necklace caused that? She didn’t have the necklace then. But they don’t know that. And they can’t prove it unless they find Ser Dontos or Lord Baelish confesses. Neither of those scenarios are likely.

“A bit,” she says. “I remember how weak I was when I woke up. Someone wanted me dead?”

“We’re not sure,” Tyrion admits. “What’s important is that you’re alive. And that you continue to tell me when you receive gifts. Especially gifts from strangers.”

“Of course,” she says.

She never thought the discovery of the poison would lead them to think _she_ was the intended recipient, but it’s better than being in prison for treason. A small lie between her and her husband should be okay.

She continues to sit, hands limp in his for a while longer. “Poison?” She finally asks.

“Poison,” he confirms. “But you are safe now. You don’t - do you remember anything about this knight who gave you the necklace?”

Does she dare lie? No, if they do find him, it’s too easy to prove that Sansa should have known him. They’ll be suspicious. “His name is Ser Dontos Hollard,” she says.

Tyrion looks surprised.

“I saved his life,” Sansa says. “On Joffrey’s nameday. Joffrey was going to drown him in wine. I convinced him to name Ser Dontos a fool. Do you think he gave me the necklace out of revenge? I tried to help him.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know,” Tyrion comforts. “He is a drunk and a fool, I’m sure all it took was a promise of power or gold for him to make a delivery for the future Lord of the Vale.” Tyrion pauses, one hand dropping to his side, the other covering his mouth. “Gods be damned.”

“Tyrion?” Sansa asks. He’s made a jump she didn’t follow, and if she’s going to keep the lies straight, she needs to know. “Husband?”

“The maester. When you were sick. Jon Arryn.”

She still doesn’t understand.

“Jon Arryn was the former Hand of the King,” Tyrion reminds her.

“My uncle,” she says. “My father took his position.”

“After he died a mysterious death. And who married his widow? Who profited the most from his death? Who used the same poison to harm you?”

“Lord Baelish,” she answers. “So he did want me dead.”

“Or your husband,” Tyrion says. “You were engaged to Ser Loras then, I believe. Why would he - nevermind. You don’t need to worry about this. I will take care of it. I promise.”

“Take care of it?” she asks.

“Lord Baelish will not harm you,” he promises. “If he did have a hand in the death of Jon Arryn and your sickness then my father will ensure he never steps foot in the capital again unless it’s for his execution.”

Sansa doesn’t trust herself to summon up a convincing show of concern over killing the man who brought her so much misery so instead she leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she says.

He touches his cheek and looks at her in wonderment. She thinks it’s the first time she’s kissed him. He’s kissed her plenty, but she knows it’s not the wife’s place to be active or forward in the bedroom. But...maybe he would like it if she kissed him more?

She leans forward again but he presses two fingers to her lips to stop her.

“My sister’s wedding,” he says, voice hoarse. “We’re going to be late, and I need to speak with Lord Varys.”

“You two are quite close,” Sansa says as they make their way to the steps of the castle where a carriage will bring them to the Sept.

“He is a man with knowledge, and I am a man who can do things with that knowledge. We make a good team.”

“Maybe he can sit with us at the feast,” Sansa says. “Friends are hard to come by in the capital. They should be treasured.”

“Indeed they should.”

~*~

They agree on the way to the wedding to put their conversation behind them as much as possible and try to enjoy the day.

“My sister is getting married and is finally going to be as miserable as she deserves,” Tyrion says as they take their place at the Sept. “It would be strange if I wasn’t smiling.”

“Ser Loras will make a fine husband,” Sansa says. She is happy with the one she has, but she can’t understand how anyone could be miserable marrying him. Of course, what she believes Cersei deserves isn’t something she can say out loud. “He’s strong and very handsome.”

“Pretty is the word you’re looking for,” Tyrion tells her.

Sansa ignores him in favor of looking at Ser Loras, almost regal in his wedding outfit. He’s in a fine green coat, gold embroidery making the stems for beautiful flowers that decorate the garment. It’s fitting for the Knight of the Flowers.

“I wonder if all men in Highgarden are as fashionable as Ser Loras.”

“There would be no Highgarden if all the men were as fashionable as Ser Loras.”

Next to them, Jaime laughs. “You should be glad you married my brother, Lady Sansa. I fear the bride is going to be outshone by the groom. A capital crime in my opinion.”

“I’m sure Lady Cersei will look beautiful,” Sansa says because as much as she hates the woman, she has to admit that she is very pretty. And, because she fears she might have said too much about Ser Loras she adds, “I am glad I married your brother. He is the best husband I could have.”

Especially since her other prospects were Joffrey and Ramsay.

He protects her, is gentle with her, engages her in conversation. He might even be kind.

~*~

The ceremony is torturous. While Sansa hadn’t been _happy_ to be marrying Tyrion, she knew he was her best option, had smiled during the ceremony. Cersei makes no such attempt. She practically stalks down the aisle, and when Ser Loras sees the anger in her eyes, the smile falls off his face.

It doesn’t return.

The vows are short, clipped, and Sansa isn’t the only one uncomfortable by the time they’re over.

It’s a smaller ceremony than even Sansa and Tyrion’s had been and the feast smaller still. Sansa gets her wish for Lord Varys to join them at their table. Ser Jaime is also seated with them which she had expected. Lady Brienne is with them which she had not.

“Lady Brienne, good to see you again,” Sansa says.

“Lady Lannister.”

The name looks like it was difficult for Brienne to say, but Sansa accepts it as the peace offering she’s sure it was meant to be. Brienne is in her men’s garb for this event, but Sansa notices that it is much finer than what she wore to dinner.

“You look very nice,” Sansa says.

To her amusement, Lady Brienne blushes. “I was sworn to Lord Renly, former husband to Queen Margaery. When she discovered I had nothing appropriate to wear to her brother’s wedding, she saw that I was fitted for these.”

“Our Queen has good taste,” Sansa says.

She notices Tyrion and Lord Varys speaking in whispers and wonders if it’s about the necklace. Would they dare to speak of such things at the wedding?

Podrick pours them all wine, and Sansa watches, curious, as Lord Varys waves him off.

“Not a vice of mine,” he says to the stares he gets.

“I’ll have mine and his,” Tyrion says.

Sansa is still too pleased by his concern over her health and possible poisoning to scold him for it.

“Because his vices are many,” Ser Jaime says, playfully nudging his brother. “Though, I suppose a few less now that you’re married.” He looks over at Sansa. “Or perhaps more. Lady Sansa, how many years are you exactly?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Lady Brienne says. “And Ser Jaime should apologize for being a -”

“Being a what?” Ser Jaime challenges, laughing when Brienne glances at Sansa and then keeps her mouth shut. “Good thing you’re here to police our language and etiquette, Lady Sansa. If you weren’t, this table might sound more like one found at a tavern in Flea Bottom.”

“You frequent many taverns in Flea Bottom?” Lord Varys asks.

Jaime grins and takes a drink of his wine. The smile slips off his face when he looks up at the newlywed table and sees Cersei knock back another glass of wine. “It’s a good thing women don’t have the same problem as men with overconsumption of alcohol on their wedding nights.”

“Brother,” Tyrion warns. “There are ladies at the table.”

Sansa glances up at where Ser Loras and Cersei are dining, separate from the rest of the crowd. Cersei is knocking back wine like she hopes she can drown herself before the meal is through, and Sansa wonders if she’s really so unhappy.

She spares a glance at Ser Jaime. He looks as unhappy as Cersei now that there are no eyes on him, and Sansa is reminded of a nasty rumor she heard going around the castle some time ago. About Cersei and Jaime but - no. It cannot be true. Brothers and sisters wouldn’t. She and Robb wouldn’t. Even she and Jon wouldn't and they’re only half-siblings.

Besides, Ser Jaime has been in the King’s Guard all this time, and they’re sworn to celibacy.

He’s not anymore, though. Maybe that will give him some comfort.

“Tyrion and I were discussing how glad we are that the wedding season is almost through,” Sansa says, interrupting Ser Jaime and Tyrion’s apparent decision to drink until someone stops them. “But, it might not be over as soon as we thought.”

“Oh?” Lord Varys asks when no one else appears to take notice. “Who is left?”

“Ser Jaime has recently been reinstated as heir of Casterly Rock,” Sansa says, and _that_ gets everyone’s attention. “Why go through the trouble of making him heir if he’s not going to have an heir of his own?”

“Oh gods,” Ser Jaime groans.

Sansa, a slight smile on her face, turns to Brienne. “You’re a Lady of Tarth. I hear it’s called the Sapphire Isle.”

“Not because of sapphires,” Lord Varys says. “I believe it’s a reference to the water.”

Jaime and Brienne are both looking too horrified to say anything. Tyrion laughs and raises his glass to them.

“To the future happy couple,” Tyrion says.

“No,” Jaime says.

“I would rather fall on my sword,” Brienne says.

“Rather than his?” Tyrion asks, laughing.

“There are ladies present,” Lord Varys reminds everyone.

“Lady Sansa is married,” Ser Jaime says. “She knows quite a bit about falling on swords by now, I’d imagine. And I think Brienne would be the first to tell you she isn’t a lady.”

Sansa doesn’t know what they’re talking about. It must be crude if Lord Varys is trying to intervene on her behalf, but she’s afraid she’ll be laughed at if she asks them to explain.

She turns to Brienne instead. “I didn’t mean any offense,” she says.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Brienne says. “But I had a long journey bringing him back to King’s Landing. He whines worse than a baby, and his pride is pricklier than a porcupine.”

“Slander,” Ser Jaime says.

“Truth,” Brienne counters.

Sansa likes anyone who will speak candidly to a Lannister. She moves her chair slightly closer to Brienne’s.

“I rescued you from Harrenhal,” Ser Jaime says.

“You left me there first.”

“You were at Harrenhal?” Sansa asks.

“We were captured several times on our journey,” Brienne says.

“My brave protector wasn’t very good at protecting,” Ser Jaime says.

“Jaime didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut when it mattered. We were captured by a man named Vargo Hoat. He brought us to Roose Bolton at Harrenhal.”

“First he cut off my hand,” Ser Jaime points out.

“Roose Bolton?” Sansa asks, feeling faint.

She knows that Roose and Ramsay are alive and somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, but to hear him mentioned so casually is almost too much.

“You know him?” Brienne asks.

“He is not a good man,” Sansa says. His son is even worse.

“He agreed to let me go,” Ser Jaime says. “That makes him a good man in my book.”

“My mother agreed to let you go as well,” Sansa says.

A silence falls over the table, one that she caused. She knows better than to talk about her family. She wishes she could run for the godswood, but she cannot run from all of her problems.

“I apologize,” Sansa says. “The Boltons - their sigil is the flayed man. Theon, he was a ward of my father’s, he used to try to scare me and Arya by telling us stories where Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton’s son, would chase us down with his hounds and then flay us alive.”

The silence continues.

“That,” Tyrion clears his throat, “I assume he accomplished his goal of scaring you?”

Sansa wishes for a cloak to pull tight around her shoulders, but it’s too warm in King’s Landing for heavy clothes. “Theon wasn’t always kind. I don’t think he liked living with us. He just pretended.”

“Not much is known about the Bolton bastard,” Lord Varys says. “Perhaps that should change.”

“They were just stories,” Sansa says.

“Stories always come from somewhere,” Lord Varys says, “and it’s odd that the Boltons have not chosen a new sigil. Flaying was outlawed in the North, was it not?”

“By my father,” Sansa says. “But there is no one to enforce that rule now.”

“With all the chaos in the North, it would be a shame for such a barbaric practice to begin again,” Lord Varys tells her. “I’ll see what songs the Northern birds sing.”

“While I was in Harrenhal,” Brienne says, “One of Roose Bolton’s men threw me in a cage with a bear so his men could watch and laugh while I fought it with a wooden sword.”

Sansa’s eyes go wide.

“Is this really an appropriate story?” Tyrion asks.

Brienne shrugs. “We’re discussing the fodder of our nightmares.”

“A bear?” Sansa asks. She’d seen a bear once, far away, from the safety of a horse. And she’s seen their pelts after they’re dead and skinned. She doesn’t think she’d want to see one up close. “Were you scared?”

“I was sure I was going to die,” Brienne says.

“And then her brave knight in shining armor rescued her,” Ser Jaime says.

Brienne smiles. “And then my foolish, unshaven, dirt-stained pain in the arse companion who had just deserted me returned and jumped into the pit with me.”

Sansa’s gaze switches to Jaime. “Did you bring your sword? Did you fight the bear?”

Brienne laughs. “He trusted no one wanted to see Tywin Lannister’s oldest son mauled by a bear more than they wanted to live so he hoisted me up to be rescued and then I rescued him. We rescued each other. No debt owed.”

“She has a very strict code of honor,” Ser Jaime says. “It can be quite annoying.”

Sansa finds herself smiling. Lady Brienne is growing on her. She would have been a useful companion in the flight from Winterfell, this woman who took on a bear with a glorified stick, wields a sword as well as any man, and walked all the way to King’s Landing with Ser Jaime and managed not to kill him.

“A code of honor that he doesn’t like only because it forces him to be a better man than he wants to be,” Brienne says.

“I’m a grown man set in my ways,” Ser Jaime says. “I don’t _want_ to change.”

“And now we’re back to him whining like a baby,” Brienne says. “We’ve come full circle.”

“Worse than a baby,” Tyrion corrects. “Let’s not make my brother out to be a better man than he is.”

“Traitor,” Ser Jaime says, but it’s half-hearted, and the two brothers share a smile.

Sansa thinks, for the first time, that she could be happy here in the capital.

If Joffrey was gone, of course.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Revelations of infidelity. References to Sansa's traumatic past. Very dubiously consensual sex. Still two people who are making the best choices available to them in a bad situation, but the situation is worse than they thought and "best" choice is not the same as a good choice.

Sansa tries not to hustle the maester’s apprentice down the hall too obviously. It was very kind of him to offer to carry her books to her chambers, quite in excess of his duties, but she thinks it would have taken her less time on her own, even if she had to make two trips. 

Reading has never been a favorite pastime of Sansa’s, except for the tales of noble knights and fair maidens, and those have long been set aside. She was surprised to learn that many of the ladies in King’s Landing can’t read at all, but in the North, where husbands are forever riding off to deal with early snows or wolves or wildlings or whatever else threatens, wives are too often left in charge of the household to neglect such an essential skill.

So she learned, but certainly she’s never shown any interest in the dense historical tomes the boy is currently carrying. But her life, unbelievably, has fallen into a safe, comfortable pattern.

Lord Tyrion has continued to be kind beyond expectation, and his attentions are never painful. In return she’s been as diligent in her wifely duties as any man could expect, and really, the process is perhaps not quite as distasteful as she’d first thought. Not that she’s ventured to kiss him so boldly again; fortunately, he was distracted by other things and seems to have forgotten that incident, for which she is intensely grateful.

Adding to her almost-happiness is, perhaps unsurprisingly, Queen Margaery. The Queen has been pale and unwell these last few weeks, only to be expected given her marriage to Joffrey, but today the whole palace is afire with the rumor that she is with child. 

For her sake, Sansa hopes that she truly did conceive at the bedding ceremony, and the rampant speculation into her private mistreatment is only speculation.

This leads to the third, much more surprising source of her good mood: Joffrey himself. Or, more properly, Lord Tywin. 

Queen Margaery must have rushed to him with the news the moment she even suspected, and Lord Tywin suggested--strongly--that the King find somewhere else to direct his attention while his wife carries out her particular duties.

Joffrey didn’t like that at all, and threw an epic fit.

Sansa missed the whole thing, but she heard from a very reliable source, no less than Lord Varys himself, that the King was ultimately sent to bed without supper, with his mother banished also to ensure that he stayed there.

Checking that the lad is looking elsewhere, Sansa indulges in a shiver of pure delight, something she hasn’t felt in longer than she cares to remember. Lord Tywin is very clever, accustomed to being obeyed, and, perhaps most importantly, not blind to his grandson’s many, many faults.

If the Queen is to carry a child to term, the King will have to be watched constantly, and strictly controlled, and by all appearances Lord Tywin is prepared to make that happen.

And with Joffrey locked in his rooms like a naughty child, Sansa is free to move about the palace without fear of harassment, instead of hiding in the grounds all day like she usually does. Oh, things have been better, certainly, since her marriage, but Joffrey is the King, and he still finds opportunities for smaller torments. Most aren’t even worth bothering her husband about; it’s not that he thinks she’s a liar, she reflects, or that he likes Joffrey, which he doesn’t, but he just doesn’t seem to understand how fixated Joffrey is on her.

Plus, he has an irritating habit of either smoothly defusing the situation or making it ten times worse, and she can never tell in advance which it’s going to be.

The point is, Joffrey is occupied, Lord Tywin is potentially in the mood to look toward the future, and this is her chance to move forward with her tentative plans to leave King’s Landing at last. No one’s said anything, but she’s quietly abandoned the thought of going to Casterly Rock; there’s Ser Jaime to consider, as well as the oft-times baffling hostility between her husband and his father, and it’s not like she has the faintest interest in that place anyway.

But while she might have managed to amuse Lord Tywin with her impulsiveness in the past, all that got her was pulled into his schemes for his children, very much on the outside and ignorant of his actual intentions. She needs to make him understand the significance of an alliance with the North, through her, preferably in a way that makes him think it’s his idea.

Her father had always been adamant that the North was critical to the stability of the realm, but never said more on the subject than how beneficial his close relationship with King Robert was to all concerned. Which is totally inapplicable to her situation and not at all helpful.

Hence, the books. She can hardly go about asking for advice on how to make a bid for control of the North, and she knows that she isn’t subtle enough to get information without giving the game away.

Her husband is an expert in this area, judging by how she misses at least a third of all his conversation, closer to half if Lord Varys or Ser Jaime are nearby. Unfortunately, his expertise is unavailable to her in this instance. 

There are whole hours where she forgets that she is married to a Lannister, and how inconvenient that is when plotting against the Lannisters.

But it doesn’t matter, she reminds herself firmly. She isn’t, perhaps, clever in the traditional sense, but she isn’t nearly as foolish or ignorant as her husband thinks she is, and she’ll find the evidence she needs to show Lord Tywin that a North united under his control, through Sansa, is more useful to him than a fractured and squabbling mess.

The poor boy tries to courteously open the door for her, but his arms are full and all he manages is to half-fall and step on her foot.

She gives him a conspiratorial smile. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” she says, getting the door for him and waving him through.

He stops suddenly, and she walks right into his back.

“What are you-”

He’s not a very tall lad, and a bit on the skinny side, so she doesn’t even have the extra second of leaning around him before she sees it.

Or rather, them.

Her husband--that lying, cheating, useless, idiot, good-for-nothing  _ Lannister _ \--is in bed,  _ their bed _ , with another woman.

And because she’s Sansa Stark, it’s not just any random woman, either.

It’s  _ Shae _ .

For a very long, very painful moment, the only sound in the room is several heavy tomes hitting the floor.

“Sansa-” Tyrion-- _ Lord Tyrion _ \--says.

She’s wants to take one of those books and beat his head in with it. She wants to smash the wine pitcher and stab him with the pieces, there’s just never a knife around when you need one, then strangle them both with the sheets... 

She does none of those things, of course.

Fists clenched, jaw so tight she has an instant headache, she spins and stalks out of the room.

~*~

Ser Jaime finds her on one of the walkways overlooking the sea. She didn’t want to pollute her sanctuary with her current troubles, and if she did run into Joffrey she could always throw the both of them into the sea and be done with it.

The hours of solitude have done nothing to cool her temper. Desperately wishing she’d paid more attention to Arya’s scandalous interest in foul language, she has to settle for glaring at him.

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly about to make some smug Jaime Lannister comment.

She’s looking forward to ripping his other hand off and feeding it to him the second he does.

He closes it without saying anything, showing much more sense than she’d ever credited him with, and offers her his arm.

Her breath comes out in a long hiss between her clenched teeth.

He takes a small step back, and then just starts walking. Desperately wanting to do something childish, Sansa forces herself to fall into step behind him.

Just to make this day as painful as possible, Ser Jaime takes her back to the same room Lord Tywin offered her a home in Casterly Rock in exchange for her son.

If she were in the mood to be mollified, she would be pleased to see that Cersei is apparently still attending the King and isn’t here. As it is, she can only assume that the beastly woman is scheming with Joffrey to find the most humiliating way to rub today’s revelations in her face.

Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrion are glowering at each other, obviously at the tail end of an argument, and she hopes Lord Tywin was vicious. She knows he can be, and is furious with herself for previous attempts to deflect some of the worst of it from her  _ lord husband. _

“Ah, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin says, stepping around Lord Tyrion like he’s beneath his notice. “Please, sit down.”

Sansa bares her teeth in what hopefully will be taken as a smile, and sits as far from her previous seat as possible. She hides her clenched fists in her lap.

Ser Jaime disappears for a moment, then comes back with the maester’s apprentice. 

Sansa isn’t feeling too charitable towards him, either. Obviously he hadn’t wasted any time in informing the entire castle. 

She makes a careful note of his face. It’s unlikely in the extreme that she’ll have attention to spare from her own miserable situation to spread that misery around, but if the opportunity arises, she wants to make sure it’s directed at the right people.

Lord Tywin directs him to stand on the empty side of the table, and waits patiently as Ser Jaime takes his seat. Sansa hadn’t thought through the seating arrangements beyond ‘away from Lord Tyrion’, and is not pleased to find herself between Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin.

She’s so busy being annoyed that she doesn’t immediately notice that Lord Tywin is trying to glare Lord Tyrion into a seat. He eventually succeeds, and turns a surprisingly pleasant smile on the maester’s apprentice.

“Now, what’s your name, boy?”

“Gifford, m’lord Hand. Ser.”

“Please, there’s no need for such formality. ‘My lord’ will be sufficient, Gifford.”

“Uh, yes, m’lord.”

“I understand you have some news to share.”

Despite herself, Sansa is fascinated by this interaction. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Lord Tywin act so friendly, even--or especially--with his own family, and he has to be furious. The whole sequence of events is highly embarrassing for him, as it shows his son in an unflattering light and suggests that he, as the one who brokered the marriage, doesn’t take his obligations seriously.

And the boy obviously realizes that something is amiss, because he’s sweating as much as Ser Dontos when Joffrey ordered him killed.

Yes, Ser Dontos, another faithless degenerate.

Sansa is forced to consider the possibility that, rather than her possessing colossally bad luck in suitors, perhaps her father and brothers are the only honorable men in Westeros.

By the time she tunes back into the conversation, the boy is whimpering and Lord Tywin is wielding a smile like a bared sword.

“So who is this woman, then?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know her, m’lord.”

“But you’d recognize her if you saw her again?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly looking at her face, was I?” He makes a crude gesture over his chest.

There’s another point against all men, Sansa thinks. 

Lord Tywin doesn’t look any more impressed than she is. “Was that a no?”

“Uh, maybe if she was naked?”

There’s a long silence, where Lord Tywin lets him consider what a stupid answer that was, and then he glances away.

Ser Jaime almost knocks his chair over, monstrous thing that it is, as he leaps up to escort the boy out.

She follows his progress out, knowing that her own disapproval is unlikely to register in the face of Lord Tywin’s, but not particularly caring. She accidentally catches sight of Lord Tyrion, who is looking… frightened.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look afraid.

Not that she particularly cares how he feels, except that she doesn’t understand, and doesn’t know if whatever-it-is that she’s missing will come back on her.

Like the current situation.

Lord Tywin sits, and turns that pleasant smile on Sansa. Her spine crawls; his face may be arranged in a smile, but his eyes are cold and calculating.

“Lady Sansa. Daughter. I must apologize for my son’s deplorable behavior. He has disrespected you, and dishonored his House.”

He pauses, and Sansa realizes some response is expected of her. “Thank you, my lord. Father.”

For a wild moment she thinks he’s about to offer to punish Lord Tyrion on her behalf, and she isn’t sure she has it in her to refuse his offer. 

“I’m afraid I must add to your distress and ask you a difficult question. Did you recognize the girl?”

Sansa looks at this smiling man, handsome for all he’s old enough to be her grandfather, and remembers that this is Tywin Lannister, the man who fought a war against her family. Her father spoke of his ruthlessness, on the battlefield and in his personal life.

Would such a man hesitate to do any number of nasty things to an upstart handmaiden with no family, no money, and no name?

Sansa has been so busy being furious with Tyr--Lord Tyrion for dishonoring their vows and putting all her hopes for their future in jeopardy that she hadn’t had time to be properly angry about Shae yet. Sansa hadn’t had the chance to give those attention avoiding lessons she mentioned, and she well knows how little power a woman can have, she’d seen the fight, she should have done more to help Shae, the woman has been by her side for months--

She stops, feeling sick. Shae has been with her for months. How soon did she appear after Lord Tyrion’s arrival in King’s Landing? Weeks? Days? Sansa had always suspected that Shae had another life before becoming a handmaiden, being so ignorant and unsuited for the task…

She glances at Lord Tyrion again. He still looks frightened, and rather desperate.

But he wouldn’t-- _ she _ wouldn’t--this whole time!?

“I know this is upsetting,” Lord Tywin says, as the silence stretches.

Sansa doesn’t know anything for certain, and gods know, she’s misjudged a person’s character before. But she has to consider the worst possible scenario, that Lord Tyrion and Shae had been lovers before and throughout her marriage, laughing at poor, stupid Sansa who doesn’t have a clue.

She catches herself grinding her teeth and makes herself stop.

Lord Tyrion, she would happily throw him on his father’s mercy and watch him try and tapdance his way out of trouble. He would, too, the-the  _ Lannister _ ! But Shae--however bitter those memories might be now, she stood up for Sansa when no one else would, was ready to lie to Cersei for her, protected her during the Siege, threatened Lord Baelish.

It’s a debt, and one Sansa does not care to bear any longer.

“I’m sorry, father,” she says, looking Lord Tywin straight in the eye, “but I’m afraid I didn’t see.”

Lord Tyrion chokes, and why that utterly useless excuse for a man would choose now to forget all his supposed courtly skills she just can’t imagine. She keeps her eyes on the real power in the room.

One, elegant eyebrow slowly goes up. “Indeed?”

“I was distraught, father,” she improvises. “I couldn’t see much through the tears.”

Lord Tyrion makes another noise, and she hopes that he actually has some honor buried deep somewhere so he can feel the sting of that.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Lord Tywin says, and she thinks he’s trying to sound comforting, but it doesn’t come naturally to him. “Just, try to think. It could be important. This woman could be pregnant.”

It takes conscious effort to keep from throwing up. It’s not that she hadn’t realized that Lord Tyrion was mocking her attempts to fulfill their marital duty, but she hadn’t thought…

Gods.

She manages what must be a truly ghastly smile. “Worry not, my-father. Should the need arise, I can write my brother on the wall. I’m sure he will have ample guidance on the raising of bastards.”

“Bastards won’t inherit anything from me,” he says, steel creeping into his tone.

“Of course not, father. I have not forgotten my marital responsibilities.” She pauses long enough for them both to hear how she doesn’t say ‘unlike some other people’. “This woman, whoever she is, cannot change that.”

“Oh?”

“How many women are there in the palace? In King’s Landing? Can I banish them all? Of course not. It is a waste of time and effort best put towards more productive pursuits.”

“That… is a very practical way of looking at the matter.”

Sansa wants to laugh, bitterly, but she seems to be winning so she bites her tongue instead. “I understand what is at stake here, father, and I won’t be distracted by… inconsequential details.”

“Hmm.” Lord Tywin is silent for a small eternity, but finally he relaxes against his chair. Minutely. “Very well. Should you--remember--any details, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

“Of course, father.”

It’s a dismissal at last, and only the discipline learned in her imprisonment at Winterfell keeps her from bolting for the door. With Lord Tywin, everything matters, and ladies and future mothers of heirs do not bolt. 

Of course, then she realizes that Lord Tyrion is rising to join her.

Her hands tremble, but she keeps them in front of her where Lord Tywin can’t see.

Ser Jaime opens the door for them--he must have returned at some point, and remained by the door and out of the line of fire. That’s two sensible acts in one day. She’ll have to start checking him for magical influence soon.

“I thought all the Starks were dead,” he says, and the world falls back into its usual pattern.

“What,” she says, clipped, increasing her speed.

He easily matches her near-run with his long legs. “Your brother on the wall. I thought you were out of brothers.”

He won’t be fathering heirs if she unmans him, she thinks. He’s got that shiny sword and a missing sword hand, she’s sure she can figure it out. Pointy end goes in the other person, Arya says.

“Half-brother,” she snarls. “Jon Snow, not Stark.” She doesn’t slam the door in his face, but only because he’s marginally less stupid than he looks and his face is well back.

She looks around her chambers, ready to spit fire like a dragon from the old stories, when this intolerable day gets even better.

“I told you I’m not leaving,” Shae says, angry and… in charge, in a way that Sansa has never heard her before.

Shae emerges from behind a wall, and stops when she sees Sansa.

The look she gives her is… slightly ashamed, but not especially apologetic, and underneath that is… not smugness, exactly, she saw plenty of that with Ramsay, but… a certain womanly confidence, and Sansa is sure that her earlier speculations on the worst case scenario were spot-on.

The door crashes open, and she sees Lord Tyrion there, panting. He must have run trying to keep up with her and Ser Jaime. He freezes when he sees the two women standing there.

“Leave us,” Sansa says.

Lord Tyrion makes an abortive motion towards the door.

“Not you,” she says.

Shae doesn’t move.

“Fine, don’t leave.” Sansa steps around Shae, careful not to touch her--she’s afraid what she might do--and walks up to the bed. It’s still a mess. She starts violently yanking at her dress.

“What-what are you doing?” Lord Tyrion asks.

“It’s night!” Sansa says, aware that she sounds a little hysterical, but her coping abilities are not infinite. “Have I magically got with child since this morning? Are we no longer married? Nothing has changed!” She screams the last part, and she can’t seem to get her dress undone even though it’s just a few clips, and she starts to cry.

She doesn’t want Shae to hear her complete disgrace, and bites her lip until it bleeds, trying to recall all the many, much more difficult circumstances she has endured.

The door opens, and Ser Jaime puts his head in.

“Do you have something else to say?” she shouts, obscurely grateful for something she can be openly angry about and to distract her from her tears. “Want to gloat over my dead sister, as well?”

“I could use some assistance,” he says. “There’s some… clothes, that need… sewing. Somewhere else.” He looks at Shae pointedly.

Apparently she’s willing to disrespect Sansa--well, that was self-evident--but not a knight and heir to House Lannister, and she leaves.

Sansa is grateful, she supposes. She’s not sure she could actually go through with this with Shae just standing there watching.

“I’m sorry about Jaime,” Lord Tyrion says, when it’s obvious she’s not going to break the silence.

_ That’s _ what he’s sorry about?

“I think he was trying to be helpful, in his special Jaime way.”

“Helpful?”

“You already dislike him anyway, and I believe he thought that if you could be angry at him, you might be less angry at me.”

She turns around, giving him a good view of her tear and blood-stained face, and he visibly flinches. “Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she says.

He can’t hold her eyes, and looks at the floor instead. “I-I suppose not. Which, it’s only right that you be angry, I-”

Suddenly, she doesn’t want to hear it. “Nevermind. It’s done. Come here and-and help me with my dress. Please.”

“You-you were serious about that?”

“Of course!”

He approaches, slowly, and unclasps her dress. It takes approximately two seconds, of course, and she deeply regrets her clumsiness, because it reminds her of the other time he undressed her, fumbling with her stays, and she flirted and felt bold and powerful, that he wanted her.

He and Shae probably laughed about it later. Sansa can’t even undress herself, just an ignorant child, a stupid little girl.

She’s not bleeding, she’s not bruised, but somehow this breaks through all her self-imposed restraints and she starts to cry in earnest.

He immediately takes her hands off her. “We really don’t have to do this right now-”

“Will it be different tomorrow?” she chokes out.

“I-I suppose not…”

She shrugs out of her dress and underdress, and stretches herself out on her belly on the bed. 

Nothing happens for a while.

She sniffles and props herself up on her elbows. “Well, get on with it.”

He hasn’t even taken his clothes off yet. He’s just standing there looking ill. “This isn’t exactly…” he trails off.

Sansa sits up a little, self-consciously covering herself with her hands. She almost misses Ramsay, everything was so simple then.

She immediately feels ill herself, and resolves to never think that ever again.

“I can be quieter,” she says, and sniffs again, trying to get some control over her tears. Ramsay had enjoyed her crying when he touched her, but once he was done, she had to be, too.

“That is absolutely not what I meant.”

Obviously he found her body… inadequate, in some manner, since he was taking his pleasure elsewhere. “I could…” Her imagination fails her. “Do… something?” A good start would probably be to stop shielding her body from his eyes, and she makes herself put her hands down.

She can’t read his expression at all. “No, that’s… not necessary. I’ll… manage. Go ahead and lie down.”

Of course. Why bother wasting his time, when he has so many interesting, competent women to choose from instead? It’s not like she particularly wanted his touch, not before this incident and certainly not now, but… she meant her vows, and fully intended to be loyal to him, and he had never even considered it. Didn’t care, thought her beneath his notice.

He touches her thigh, and she fights not to tense up, knowing it will only hurt more.

He’s not Joffrey, she reminds herself, over and over. He’s not Ramsay.

It takes forever, and she’s cried herself out and just wants to go to sleep by the time he finally finishes. She’s not sure why he chose now to drag this out, whether it’s to remind her of how completely unattractive she is to him or some other reason, but she hopes this isn’t the start of a new pattern.

Her pillow smells like Shae.

Winter is coming. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell.

~*~

When she wakes the next morning, her mind is a little clearer. 

Lord Tyrion is sitting at the breakfast table, fully dressed, looking like he’s on his way to the executioner’s block. No, that’s not fair; her father faced such a thing with grace and dignity. He’s certainly unhappy, though.

As he should be.

She begins to sit up, remembers she’s naked, and stops. She doesn’t want him looking at her.

He seems to read her thoughts and turns his back, apparently engrossed in the view from the window.

She quickly shrugs into her clothes. Fortunately the dress is a simple one.

She’s just doing up the last clasp when Shae comes in with the breakfast tray.

Sansa freezes. The truly surreal thing is that this morning is exactly like every other morning of her married life, and she’d just utterly failed to understand what was going on right in front of her nose.

Lord Tyrion looks horribly uncomfortable, and she can’t even enjoy it because she feels the same.

She wants to order Shae out, but that’s hardly going to change anything that really matters, and there’s always the possibility that Shae will simply disregard her orders. Sansa doesn’t have any real power here, not in any way that matters.

She can’t stay here.

“My lord husband,” she says. “If I might beg a favor?”

“That-that’s really not necessary, Sansa, you can just ask.”

She meets his eyes and slowly, deliberately, curtsies.

He looks away first. “Yes, my lady?”

“I have been a considerable burden on you, my lord husband.”

A clever man, he looks extremely wary. Shae looks annoyed every time she says the word husband. 

Good. She intends to remind both of them, as often as possible, of his marital obligations. She’s going to have to take a much more active role in her pursuit of a son than she anticipated.

But there are some things she is just not willing to endure, not if she has any other choice.

“Perhaps it would be more convenient for you if I were to sleep elsewhere,” Sansa continues, still in the most formal tones she can manage. “I know you have considerable… business… to conduct.”

“Are you sure you want to discuss this now?” Lord Tyrion asks.

Both Sansa and Shae give him identical, cool looks.

He looks miserable. She hopes he stays that way. “Well. Alright then.” He coughs. “It’s-it’s actually the custom in the South, for spouses to have rooms of their own, but my father wanted me here to--you don’t care about that, nevermind--and there simply isn’t space in this part of the castle.”

So. She’s been slighted from the very beginning, and she hadn’t even known it. “I’m sure the rooms I stayed in before would be perfectly adequate,” she says.

“I-I suppose, but… They’re all the way on the other side of the Keep, and somewhat… inconvenient.”

“I hardly see that I will have much occasion to spend time here, my lord.”

“Er. Quite.” He sighs. “If-if that’s what you want, Sa-my lady, then I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, my lord husband.” As if he cared one bit what she wanted.

~*~

It isn’t easy.

Sansa concedes the field to Shae, retreating from her own married quarters, and finds herself without a handmaiden. The girl hadn’t offered, which at least spared Sansa the effort of deciding what she would do if she had.

After the first day of fending for herself, she ventures down to the servant’s domain to inquire about a replacement handmaiden, or at least a maid.

Someone elderly, married, and ideally unable to speak Common.

What she finds is a seething hub of gossip.

It’s one thing to know, intellectually, that the whole palace knows she’s been thrown over for a foreign commoner, but quite another to be inundated with questions and theories, each ruder and more appalling than the last.

There’s the group that thinks she must be awful in bed, that she can’t even keep the interest of a dwarf (though not in such polite terms).

There’s another group, mostly women, who think she should sneak into his chambers and unman him, nevermind how obviously counterproductive that would be.

What sends her fleeing back to her rooms, though, is that whatever camp they’re in, the consensus is that everyone knew he was running around behind her back, and could she really have been surprised by this?

Curled up on her bed, clutching a pillow to her, Sansa can admit, to herself, that she hadn’t the faintest idea her husband had been unfaithful to her.

With her handmaiden.

In  _ their bed _ .

She can’t keep from returning to how incredibly stupid she was, how ignorant, how blind. Her anger is receding, and she wants to clutch it to her and wrap it around herself, because what’s left in its wake is complete and utter humiliation.

She replays those moments she tried to make Lord Tyrion smile or laugh, to show him that she could say clever things, too, or--Gods--when she would display her body to try and entice him.

She’d thought him kind, but he couldn’t even be bothered to tell her what a fool she was making of herself.

Her parents hadn’t loved each other when they were first wed, but they formed an alliance as strong as that between their two Houses, always supporting each other against the world, and eventually love had blossomed.

She couldn’t hope to be so fortunate as to find love, but apparently she’d been over-reaching even to hope for an alliance of sorts.

There was no  _ we _ , no  _ us _ . What she’d foolishly thought of as their bed was frequented by Shae and who knows how many others.

Maybe she really ought to write Jon. She knows there were times he suffered for being the Bastard of Winterfell, and her life is obviously going to be… very different from how she imagined it would be.

But she will bear this shame and humiliation just as she has all the others, and she will find some kind of equilibrium. She has no choice. So, where is she now?

Lord Tywin has to know about Shae, Ser Jaime had escorted her from the room personally, but he hasn’t said or done anything.

Probably, Sansa reminds herself, because he has far more important things to concern himself with.

As does she. She has repaid her debt, and will not waste any more of her attention on Shae. She doesn’t deserve it, and Sansa has too many problems of her own.

Her plan to convince Lord Tywin that she is so devoted to Lord Tyrion that she will support him fully at Winterfell is obviously useless now. She’s not sure she can manage the necessary show, and there’s no way he’d believe her anyway.

At least he won’t have cause to inquire into her devotion to her marital obligations.

With her rooms on the other side of the castle from Lord Tyrion’s, she has to make the long walk alone to her bed every night. Servants, highborn, maesters; sometimes it feels like the whole castle turns out to witness her walk of shame.

She tries to remind herself that at least she isn’t bleeding and hurting, at least Ramsay isn’t at her elbow, but it’s not as comforting as it should be.

She will endure. She must endure.

Winter is coming, and there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to Sansa's traumatic past. References to infidelity.

She did not bleed last month.

She has kept track, in a diary, using marks no one will understand, because she wants to be pregnant, and she knows how to tell if you are.

And she did not bleed last month.

Her septa told her that happens sometimes when girls are young, but she has not bled this month either.

She touches her stomach, expecting to feel something stir even though it is too early. She wants so desperately for there to be a child in her. A child means safety. A child means no more visits to Lord Tyrion’s chamber. A child means she might finally be able to escape this gods-cursed capital.

The maesters have a test that will supposedly reveal whether a woman is pregnant. 

She wants to go, wants proof so that she can hole up in her chambers or the godswood, so she can hide away from all the people with their hurtful laughing and whispers when she walks by.

But she doesn’t want to go alone.

Last time she had to see Maester Pycelle both Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys went with her.

She will not ask her husband to accompany her this time.

Could she ask Lord Varys?

If she still had a handmaiden she would use her to arrange a meeting with Lord Varys. She might have even asked Podrick if she still shared Lord Tyrion’s chambers. 

Instead, she dresses herself in clothes fit to be seen in, and ventures down to Lord Varys’s office herself. 

She knocks quietly on his door, unsure if he’ll scold her like Lord Tywin for showing up unannounced. She doesn’t think he will. Lord Varys is one of the few kind people she has met in the capital.

Of course, she once thought her husband was kind.

The door opens before she can follow that train of thought too far.

Lord Varys seems surprised to see her; understandable, as she has hidden herself away from everyone she can avoid since her discovery of what her husband had been doing. 

“My dear,” Lord Varys says, “What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in. If I’d known I was having company, I would have sent for something to drink.”

“I don’t much care for wine,” she says, stepping into his chambers.

“Neither do I. Next time you visit, I’ll arrange for juice. There is one I’m quite partial to that we ship in from Dorne. Though maybe I presume in there being a next time?”

Sansa ducks her head. “I apologize for not calling on you before. And I apologize for showing up without warning. I would’ve sent a message but,” she winces at bringing the conversation here, “I had no one to deliver it.”

“Ah,” Lord Varys says, and he does her the great kindness of not saying anything else on the matter. “Might I ask what did bring you out of your solitude? I’m sure the godswood misses your presence.”

Sansa smiles. “Religion is often a comfort to those who have few comforts.”

“It is,” Lord Varys agrees.

Sansa wrings her hands, a habit her septa always scolded her for. Her mother, bolder than her septa, would smack Sansa’s hands every time she saw her doing it. “I need to see a maester, and I remember you escorting me last time, and perhaps it’s not my place to ask but -”

“Of course I will accompany you,” Lord Varys says and he once again does her great kindness by not asking why her husband isn’t going with her. Though she supposes it must be obvious. “Is something wrong, my lady? Have you been given something again?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she assures him, touched at his concern. “But I have been given something. Of a sort.”

She looks down at her stomach, and when she looks back up at Lord Varys, his eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. She’s pleased at her ability to shock a man whose reputation is to know everything.

“You,” he begins, and falters.

“It is happy news,” Sansa assures him. “And I want confirmation so that I don’t take risks that may harm the baby. But,” here she hesitates, unsure of how close an ally Lord Varys is, “I don’t want others to know. And they call you the Keeper of Secrets.”

“They call me many things,” Lord Varys says. “If this is such happy news why keep it to yourself?”

“Where I’m from,” Sansa says, “Many pregnancies fail. My septa always said it was bad luck to celebrate until you begin to show. And even then there could still be complications. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”

“A considerate thought,” Lord Varys says. “But many women tell others so if there is a...complication, they have people to grieve with.”

“I’m telling you,” Sansa says.

“You are,” Lord Varys agrees. “If it is privacy you are searching for, might I make a suggestion? I know the most common test the maesters would use.”

“The fewer people that know the better,” Sansa says. “And I trust you.”

“High praise,” Lord Varys says. “I will strive to be worthy of it. A warning before we proceed. It is a bit of a...delicate test. You might want someone else present as well?”

Like who? Sansa wants to ask. But he has been nothing but helpful and polite, and does not deserve to be treated rudely. It’s not him she is angry with. “If you aren’t uncomfortable then we can proceed.”

“As you wish,” Lord Varys says. “It really is a shame I didn’t have juice.”

Sansa doesn’t understand the comment, still doesn’t understand when he hands her a container off one of his shelves.

“I will need you to urinate in that,” he says.

“What?” she asks weakly and then quickly waves him off when he goes to repeat himself. She doesn’t need to hear him say it again. She thought he would study her stomach or something. She didn’t realize...she looks at the container. “I suppose there are more indignities ahead of me if I am in fact with child.”

“I have heard childbirth is quite undignified in many respects.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Is there somewhere private I might take this?”

It takes her some time to be able to fill the container, embarrassed that Lord Varys knows what she’s doing, embarrassed that she’s going to have to bring it out to him, but she wants this test, she needs this test, and she hardly has any dignity left anyway. 

Still, she’s glad she’s doing this with Lord Varys and not any of the maesters. 

She doesn’t fill the container all the way, but she doesn’t think she has to. She hopes she doesn’t have to. 

She brings it out to Lord Varys, unable to meet his eyes. 

He is completely professional, taking down various concotions and unguents and mixing them. He politely narrates everything he’s doing, so they don’t have to stand there in awkward silence, but most of it is rather technical and goes right over her head. It doesn’t matter; the sound of his voice soothes her nerves independent of the substance of his words. 

He finishes with what looks suspiciously like ordinary wine, then consults a book with large squares of different colors and, presumably, the ailments they are supposed to indicate.

“Well,” he says at last. “I believe congratulations are in order, my dear.”

Sansa wants to see for herself, but she hasn’t the skill to decipher the bowl’s secrets, and besides, it smells. She backs away.

“You’ll need to begin eating for two, now,” Lord Varys tells her. “So if fasting is part of your trips to the godswood then I must insist that you stop.”

“No,” Sansa says. “No fasting.” No point in making herself even more miserable by denying herself food. “My septa told me that what you eat while you’re pregnant determines the strength of your baby. Lots of meat and vegetables, avoid dessert. And absolutely no wine.”

“All good things to keep in mind; though, you don’t have to abstain entirely from sweet things. It might even be good for you to indulge a bit.”

“Oh?” Sansa asks, remembering her aunt telling her the story of how her mother almost got fat. Sansa is already married and she’s the butt of every joke in King’s Landing. She doesn’t have anything to lose if she does get fat, and maybe the happiness from eating her favorite desserts would be worth it.

“You’re a small woman,” Lord Varys says. “Tall, certainly, but small in other areas, and a baby will have to come from your body.”

“Ah,” Sansa says, catching his meaning. She remembers her septa telling her to pray for birthing hips, because she wasn’t blessed with them at birth. “I can probably manage to eat more lemon cakes.”

She smiles, hesitant, and Lord Varys returns her smile.

“Might I be bold enough to make another suggestion?”

“Of course,” Sansa says.

“You will have to start being vigilant about your diet, eat on mornings where you might not want to, go for walks when your back aches, all manner of things will come up. Perhaps you might need to send a message when you are unable to get out of bed.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow slightly. “You are suggesting I not remain on my own.”

“There is a girl I know,” Lord Varys says. “She has fled the conflict in the North and come to the capital. She’s a good girl. Honest. Works hard. Aims to please.”

“You wish to give me a handmaiden,” Sansa guesses.

“I have heard that you are without one, and while I admire your resilience and independence, there is someone else who you must think of now.”

Sansa presses her palm to her flat stomach.

“Can this girl keep a secret?”

Lord Varys smiles. “I will introduce you two and you may make your own judgment.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I fear I am not a good judge of character, my lord. I will trust your assessment.”

“I assume you are going to the godswood when our appointment is complete?”

Sansa nods.

“Wynn will be in your chambers waiting for you when you return,” Lord Varys tells her. “Please don’t hesitate to come to me with anything you need, pregnancy-related or otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says and she finds that she means it.

~*~

Her visit to Lord Varys reminds her that she still has friends in the capital even if she is wary to call them friends. Her husband has not been true to her, maybe others haven’t as well. 

No, she tells herself, firm. Margaery has been her friend from the beginning, and she will not let what happened with her husband cast doubt on everything in her life. 

“Sansa!” Lady Olenna greets after Sansa, belatedly, accepts an invitation to visit the gardens. “I thought the godswood had swallowed you. I’m so glad you’re with us again.”

“I pray every day for the arrival of a healthy son,” Sansa says. “And the longer my prayers go unanswered, the longer I spend the next day on them.”

“Praying isn’t how you get yourself pregnant,” Lady Olenna says. “If they didn’t teach you that in the North then I can explain the process to you.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery scolds.

“I am familiar with the process,” Sansa says stiffly. Not, of course, as familiar as her husband is or as familiar as he might like her to be. Not that her husband’s view of her or their marital bed matters to her anymore. She has his child in her, and if it is a boy then she has no further use of their bed. And he’s made it clear there is another he would prefer there.

She looks down at her hands as she squeezes the life from them. They turn white and stiff in her grip, but it keeps her from trembling.

“Ah,” Lady Olenna says, “but there are some things the North didn’t prepare you for. Your parents had a happy marriage then?”

Sansa’s gaze stays fixed on her hands. Whispers have followed her through the city, furtive looks and giggles, but no one has said anything directly to her. Perhaps there is no one as bold as Lady Olenna in the whole capital.

Sansa doesn’t know whether to be relieved or mortified to have it brought up.

“They were an arranged match, but they found love,” Sansa says. It didn’t save them from dying gruesome deaths, far apart from each other and the home they shared together.

“Your father had a bastard, didn’t he?” Lady Olenna asks. 

“Grandmother!” Margaery interjects, again, but Lady Olenna waves her off.

Sansa’s cheeks burn, anger and embarrassment warring for control of her tongue. “Are you saying this is the way of the world? That I should accept it and raise any...extra children, as my mother raised Jon?” Not that she hasn’t entertained such thoughts, but if she decides to raise his bastards, she wants it to be her choice, not anyone else’s.

“I’m not saying you should do anything. I will tell you that men will do anything they believe they can get away with. I will tell you that marriage is a series of constant disappointments that are hopefully interrupted by moments that make the marriage worth it. I will tell you that if I were in your position, I would not be the one vacating my chambers instead of the interloper, but I will also tell you that I understand why you did. You must always try to fight a war in your own land where you have all the advantages.”

Sansa is definitely not in her own land, and it may be a long time before she sees it again.

“Finally, I will tell you that you men are never worth all the time we spend worrying about them.”

Sansa looks up at that, startled, and Lady Olenna smiles at her. 

“Men are stupid, fickle creatures, something I am sure you are learning now that you are married to one. I’m afraid it’s an irreversible condition.”

“Ever the beacon of light is my grandmother,” Margaery says dryly. She reaches for Sansa’s hand. “I’m sorry for what has happened to you. It will get better.”

It doesn’t feel that way, but Sansa puts on her brave face and nods. “What of your marriage? Better than mine, I hope.”

Margaery’s smile dims for a moment before it comes back brighter than before. “Perhaps your prayers got redirected, because I was blessed enough with a child from the night of our bedding.”

“Fortunate since your marital bed has been empty since,” Lady Olenna says.

Margaery gives her a look but doesn’t bother with verbal censure. 

“It’s certain, then? You are with child?” Sansa asks. She’s careful not to touch her own stomach. “That is wonderful news. The King must be delighted to hear it.”

“The King has spent much time in his chambers recently,” Margaery says and Lady Olenna snorts inelegantly. “He is planning a great hunt that will take him from King’s Landing for several weeks.”

“A hunt?” Sansa asks. “Is that wise given what happened to his father?”

“Better he hunts in the woods than in the capital,” Lady Olenna says tartly.

“If you -” Sansa doesn’t know what she can offer the Queen, but whatever she can offer, she will. They must all stand together against Joffrey. “You can join me in the godswood any time. No one would think it strange if the Queen wanted to pray for a healthy son.”

Margaery smiles like Sansa’s words do actually touch her. “Thank you. I hope that a son will give much needed peace and reassurance to a country so troubled by war and disorder.”

“Or a daughter you can marry off to some lord or lady to help get the peace the kingdoms need,” Lady Olenna says. “We might even see a marriage between your two children one day.”

“That would be lovely,” Margaery says. “We would be like sisters.”

“I would be honored for one of my children to marry a prince or princess,” Sansa says. Privately, she vows never to let a single one of her children marry into Joffrey’s house. She would rather be beheaded for treason like her father than allow one of her children to become Joffrey’s by marriage.

Sansa is reaching to pour herself a glass of juice when a boy no more than ten rushes past, wheezing out a frantic, “Body! At the water!” before racing off to tell everyone the news.

“Body?” Margaery asks. She gathers up her skirts and stands. 

“Are we really going to gawk like commoners?” Lady Olenna asks, but she and Sansa follow Margaery as she hurries down the path the boy had come from.

There is a large crowd gathered by the shore, but many of them part when they see that the Queen is trying to get through.

One brave man steps in front of Margaery’s path. “Forgive me, your Grace, but a Queen shouldn’t have to see this.”

“I have been told one of my subjects has died,” Margaery says. “I will see for myself.”

The man bows his head. “Of course,” he says and steps aside.

Margaery sweeps forward, Sansa trailing in her wake. No one tries to impede Sansa’s path, but she has seen enough death at the capital that another body will be nothing. It cannot be worse than heads on pikes or old women flayed alive.

When they reach the water’s edge, Sansa gasps. The body is supine, and though the face is bloated with water and the skin cracked from salt, she knows that face. 

“I know him,” she says, and she doesn’t feel faint, but her legs do feel weak. “I know this man.”

Margaery turns to her instantly. “You do?”

“His name is Ser Dontos Hollard,” Sansa says. “He’s one of the King’s fools. He -”

He was used by Lord Baelish to try to frame Sansa for Joffrey’s death. He gave her a necklace that she gave to her husband. Did Lord Tyrion have him killed? No, he wanted him questioned. Did Lord Baelish catch wind of his plot being discovered and kill the man? No, he’s too far away, and allowing Ser Dontos’s body to be discovered would cast too much suspicion on him.

“Poison,” the maester attending the body says. “Poisoned and dumped in the ocean. The tide must have brought him in.”

Poison. The word rattles around her head. She would bet the Iron Throne that he was poisoned with the same poison found in the necklace. 

Perhaps she does feel faint after all.

“Boring,” Lady Olenna concludes. “Time to return to our garden.”

“One of my subjects is dead,” Margaery says. “Not just dead,  _ murdered _ . We must find out who did this.” She turns to the maester. “What kind of poison was used?”

“Your Grace, this is hardly a matter for a woman. The maesters will -”

“The maesters will answer their Queen’s questions,” Margaery says, steel in her voice. “I will form a council to look into this murder, and I will be kept apprised of everything you learn.”

“Of course,” the maester says. “I’ll arrange for the body to be moved somewhere we can study it.”

“I want his family notified. He will be given a proper burial when your examinations are complete.”

“He has no family,” Sansa says. “He’s the last of his house.”

“You knew him,” Margaery realizes, “not just of him.”

“I saved his life,” Sansa says. “Later, as a thank you, he gave me a necklace to wear. It was his mother’s. He wanted his house to have one last moment of importance before it faded away with him.”

“Do you still have this necklace?” Margaery asks.

Sansa shakes her head. “My husband took it. He said it wasn’t right for a married woman to wear another man’s gifts.”

“Perhaps -”

“Enough,” Lady Olenna interrupts. “You are not a maester, Margaery. Nor are you an investigator for the Crown. You may make your council, but you are not going to run around the city searching for who did this.”

Margaery doesn’t look pleased but she nods. “He will still have a proper burial.”

“Of course,” Lady Olenna says. “Now, come escort me back to the garden. I’ve had enough excitement for one day, and I believe Sansa has as well.”

“You knew the man,” Margaery says again, tilting Sansa’s chin up to look in her eyes. “Are you well? Do you need someone to escort you back to your chambers? I would not leave you alone if you’re unwell.”

“I believe I’ll go to the godswood,” Sansa says. “Pray for his soul and that you find who did this.”

“I’ll send someone with you. In case you need assistance.”

“Your Grace’s kindness will not be forgotten,” Sansa says. 

She is surprised when Margaery sends a member of her guard and not a handmaiden until she remembers the way Margaery knelt beside the body. She is worried for Sansa’s safety. No, more than that. She’s worried for  _ the city’s _ safety. Someone has died, someone Margaery doesn’t even know, but as Queen she feels like she must look out for all of her subjects.

Sansa thinks the gods have played a cruel joke by marrying such a compassionate woman to such a twisted monster.

~*~

The whole court is in attendance at the docks when the ship to Highgarden sails. Lady Olenna, Cersei, and Ser Loras are returning to their home so the latter two can take their place as Lord and Lady of Highgarden. Privately, Sansa thinks Lord Tywin just wants Cersei as far from Joffrey as possible. The son is easier to control without his mother’s protection.

Sansa is sad to see Lady Olenna go and part of her is sad to see Ser Loras leave, but she cannot deny her pleasure at seeing Cersei Lannister--Tyrell now--gone at last. 

Her pleasure is somewhat dampened by the fact that she is standing with the Lannister family as they see the ship off, forced to stand beside her husband. At least Shae isn’t here. And at least she isn’t the focus of the gathering.

Everyone’s attention is on Queen Margaery, and the grief she openly shows as she says goodbye to her brother and her grandmother. “What a gentle soul,” they say, as she hugs her family. “What a wonderful woman we can call our Queen.”

It’s a cruel contrast to the way Joffrey dismisses his mother’s tears, tries to shrug out of her hug as she says her goodbyes. 

Sansa’s hands stay open and relaxed by her sides, even as inside she burns with rage at Joffrey’s easy dismissal of his mother. If Sansa still had a mother alive, she would not refuse a single embrace offered to her. 

But Joffrey is displeased, because he was forced to postpone his hunting trip so that he could be present for the sending off, and he isn’t taking care to hide his displeasure.

Sansa, however, is doing her best to hide her pleasure. Cersei gone, and in a few days Joffrey gone as well. King’s Landing will get as close to a paradise as it has ever been. More importantly, with Joffrey engaged in a hunt and far away from her, perhaps it is finally time to tell others of the baby growing inside her. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings; References to Sansa's traumatic past and infidelity. Tyrion is also talked about (not by Sansa), in an extremely rude and discriminatory way.
> 
> Notes: For anyone not reading the comments, while this is the end of this story, it's the first in a three-part series, so Sansa's journey hasn't ended yet!

Sansa doesn’t waste time. The moment Joffrey’s party is out of sight, she applies for a formal audience with the Small Council.

She hasn’t gone near the books since, well, her last attempt to consult them. In retrospect, she doesn’t think that’s the best strategy to approach Lord Tywin.

Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys both seem to have an uncanny ability to sit back and look mysterious and all-knowing--well, with a certain, inevitable amount of talking on Lord Tyrion’s part--and magically the other person babbles all their secrets, or arrives at their way of thinking on their own.

Sansa highly doubts she could pull that off. Probably she would just look clueless and silly.

But Lord Varys, at least, understands her situation, though she’s not sure how much she can consider him an ally. And, reluctant as she is to admit it, Lord Tyrion has been… cooperative, and is available--and alone--every evening when Sansa goes to his chambers.

So he, tentatively, has some respect for his role as father to their future heirs, even if he has no respect for Sansa herself.

She may have been repeatedly bludgeoned over the head with the lesson that she must take and maintain control over her life if she wishes to eke any safety or contentment out of it, but that is not the same as throwing away perfectly serviceable tools, so long as she is the one holding them.

It’s time to let the two twistiest men in the capital apply some of that twistiness for her benefit.

She may not be able to see a way to convince Lord Tywin to let her go North, but perhaps they can do it for her.

She doesn’t have much time to second-guess herself, because either the Small Council has nothing to do now that the King has departed (unlikely), or Lord Tywin is curious what she wants. There’s no prohibition against bringing issues before the Small Council, particularly now that the King is absent and they are managing the realm in his absence, but it exclusively deals with matters of state or the security of the realm. 

It’s difficult to see how Sansa, orphaned daughter of traitors and unwanted wife of a younger son, could be involved in either.

Little do they know.

Sansa is both surprised and not to find herself in the same room as her previous meetings with the Lannister family. This must be the Small Council’s official meeting room. She supposes she could have guessed that Lord Tywin would want to discipline his family in a place he has significant power, and the Office of the Hand is not very large.

She recognizes some faces and not others, but the three that truly matter are present, looking surprised to see her but hiding it well.

She puzzles over that for a moment, because Lord Varys surely must have some notion, but sets it aside as irrelevant. This is exactly the sort of expertise she’s counting on here. 

“My lords,” she says, curtsying.

“You have business for the Small Council, Lady Sansa of House Lannister?”

“I do, my Lord Hand,” she says, taking the cue to be formal.

“You may speak.”

She takes a breath, unnecessarily smoothing her skirts. “Wonderful news, my Lord Hand. I am with child.”

There’s a charged silence, where everyone looks at Lord Tyrion while trying not to look at Lord Tyrion. He didn’t know and is too surprised to hide it.

Good. She hopes he takes his ignorance of vital matters considering his own marriage and chokes on it.

Lord Tywin, of course, doesn’t even blink. “And it’s been confirmed?”

“It has,” Lord Varys says.

Sansa bows her head so she doesn’t have to control her expression. She sees another flurry of looks out of the corner of her eye, as everyone receives the message that Lord Varys had known.

“And you didn’t care to share this information?” Lord Tywin asks.

Sansa steps in. “I have been very vigilant, my lord Hand, and I became suspicious while it was still early. In the North, it’s very bad luck to make a public announcement before the second month.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his mouth looks tense.

“And now I can also tell you that it’s a boy, my lord Hand. The child sits low.” Sansa heard her mother mention this once. Of course, at the time she was explaining that the belief was pure nonsense, but it had to have come from somewhere.

There’s some, almost imperceptible softening in Lord Tywin’s expression, and she breathes again.

“How timely,” Lord Tywin says.

Sansa blinks. What?

“I have already begun preparations for your journey North.”

Sansa is pretty sure her jaw drops, but Lord Tyrion audibly gasps, so she can’t feel too silly for being so completely blind-sided.

All this time, all this scheming, and Lord Tywin had intended to send her North the whole time.

She considers being angry with him, but he is giving her everything she wants, so she decides it would be a waste of energy.

“M-my lord?” she stammers.

“You are the key to the North, it’s about time you made yourself useful and opened a few doors for me.”

Well. That certainly puts her in her place.

“The King in the North is dead,” he says, watching her carefully for any reaction.

But she has been menaced by Joffrey, been paraded before her father’s severed head, and she raises her eyes to meet his calmly. “Is my lord husband to take the title of Warden of the North?”

Lord Tywin nods once. “In trust, until the child comes of age.”

She curtsies. “Then I shall be at his side, and we will hold the North for its rightful lord, the Crown.” She allows a pained expression to briefly cross her face. “I am weary of death, my lord.”

“Hmph,” he says. “I will speed up the preparations. You will have to depart before your health prevents travel.”

Sansa certainly doesn’t want to deliver her child within a hundred miles of Joffrey, so she has no objections.

The North.

_ Home _ .

Things wrap up fairly quickly after that, and she makes a point of not so much as glancing at Lord Tyrion as she exits the room.

That night, she doesn’t go to Lord Tyrion’s chambers, and if she still isn’t ready to be happy, she is temporarily satisfied.

~*~

She avoids Lord Tyrion for three days, and she wavers between annoyance and a grudging appreciation that he does not attempt to approach her.

Eventually, she knows it is time to set aside her childish fit of temper and face a few unpleasant truths. Or, more accurately, force him to face them.

She sends him a note to meet her in her rooms that afternoon.

Her small table is set with an assortment of cakes and drinks--she makes a point to forget the wine--and she dismisses her handmaiden until supper. There’s facing reality and then there’s unnecessarily tormenting herself, and if she has any say in the matter Lord Tyrion and Wynn won’t ever meet.

She makes sure to be settled at the table and nibbling a sweet cake when Lord Tyrion arrives.

“My lord,” she says, gesturing for him to take a seat.

He looks tense.

She gives him a big smile.

Warily, he sits down across from her. He doesn’t move to serve himself. “So.”

She takes a bite of cake

“You’re going to have a baby.”

Nod.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

She frowns at him. Is he implying…

He raises a hand. “That’s not… I meant no offense. I’m just… surprised.”

She’s not sure what to make of that. “It’s a natural consequence of our… activities.”

“Well. Yes. I know that. It’s just that I never thought I would be a father.”

Sansa had thought all men were preoccupied with the idea--well, except Joffrey, and actually, she doesn’t want to dwell on that train of thought. Plenty of other painful topics to choose from. “And… you’re not?”

“Oh no,” he says, sounding very certain. “I’m always careful.”

Sansa doesn’t know what that means, and doesn’t want to reveal her ignorance by asking. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Either there will be bastards or there won’t be. “I wished to have words with you before we go North.”

He straightens in his chair. “Of course.”

“Winterfell is very different from King’s Landing,” she says.

He hesitates. “I… have been to Winterfell before, my lady.”

She’d forgotten about that. He was there when Bran had his accident, before she and Arya and her father went South, before, well, everything.

He looks like he sorely regrets mentioning it. “I’ve been to the Wall as well,” he adds, before she can say anything.

“Really?”

“Yes, I accompanied your brother when he went to join the Night’s Watch.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity? A desire to know something about a critical part of this country’s defense? Because it annoyed your brother?”

“I didn’t know anyone in the capital took notice of the North.”

He frowns. “I do actually care about the safety of this realm,” he says. “The lord commander asked me to make their situation known to the King.”

Sansa hadn’t known that. “And did you?”

“Oh, well… no. I was, er, kidnapped on the road back-”

By her mother, Sansa remembers hearing, though the details of that incident were never explained to her.

“-and then I was a bit preoccupied.”

She knows she must look confused as she feels.

“Stannis,” he clarifies. “The siege.”

“Should you speak to the King now?” she asks. She considers how likely Joffrey is to care. “Or the Hand?”

He shifts uncomfortably.

“What?”

“I… may have mentioned something to my father. He doesn’t think much of, er, ‘northern superstitions’ he called it. I’d say he believes the Wall has outlived its usefulness.”

Even thinking such a thing is nearly a capital offense in the North. Sansa suppresses her kneejerk reaction. “And you, my lord?”

“I knew the Wall was built for a reason, and I felt I had to see it for myself. Do I think it’s all that stands between us and eternal winter, ushered in by an army of the undead?” He shudders. “Let’s just say that, having stood atop the Wall and looked beyond it--I  _ hope _ there’s no truth to the stories.”

Hmm. This is an entirely unexpected development. Sansa had had visions of being forced to beg for every concession for her home and her people, but if the new Warden of the North can be made to understand the Northern heart…

Speaking of hearts, she is getting distracted.

Lord Tyrion senses her change in mood and tenses.

“Life is hard in the North,” she says. “And its people must be hard, as well. But one man cannot hold back the snow, as we say. It is only through cooperation that we prosper. Unity.”

“That makes sense,” he says, when it’s clear some response is required.

“Yes. The North is fractured, divided. It will be no small task to set it in order. And reaffirm loyalty to the Crown, of course. And winter is coming, and we must be prepared.”

“Of course. I know it won’t be an easy.”

“And so, I believe we need to come to an understanding.”

“I agree.”

“I believe our… difficulties… are due to differing expectations. You envisioned our marriage as it has been these last few days, with me pregnant and out of your way, and I… didn’t.”

“That is not-” He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “I’ll accept that’s how you feel. I assume you had an alternative in mind?”

“I’m not a silly child,” she says, with more heat than she intended. “We can both behave like adults. If this is how you want it to be, living separate lives except to conceive children, then I can accept that. I just want to know that that’s what we’re doing.”

He is speechless, which is a first.

She has a sudden flash of inspiration. “Like King Robert and Queen Cersei.” Stories of the King’s… indulgences had reached as far as Winterfell, and even her father hadn’t tried to defend his friend. But they’d still managed to have three children, and, well, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella are pleasant enough.

Lord Tyrion suffers a coughing fit. “Yes, truly an example to aspire to,” he manages.

She waits for him to calm, meets his eyes. “Or we can make the best of what we have. I am your wife. I will be the mother of your children. We will be together the rest of our lives. Is it so impossible to see a… mutual consideration, in our future?”

He does her the courtesy of considering her words gravely. “Not impossible, my lady.”

“Some things will need to change. I will not be one of an endless parade of women. Either I am your wife in truth, or we will have our separate lives, brought together only by duty.” 

“That sounds… very reasonable, my lady.” He looks at the table, the window, anywhere but her face. “I… do not say this to defend my actions, my lady. I have wronged you, and I do not deny it.”

Sansa braces herself.

“There has not been an, er, ‘endless parade of woman’. Only Shae. We were together before my father arranged the marriage, and…” His words trail off.

She isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse. While they’re sharing, however, she wants something settled. “It was you who made her my handmaiden.” It isn’t a question.

He winces. “Er. Yes. That was… in poor taste. I apologize.”

It’s the first time he’s apologized for any part of that incident. She finds it’s not terribly mollifying. Nor does she particularly care to confirm any of the other details she’d wondered about, now that it comes down to it. “You thought you would have us both.”

He seems to realize that any response would damn him, and doesn’t reply.

It doesn’t matter, she knows she’s right. “You cannot,” she says. “I will, of course, fulfill my duty either way. But for anything more, you can have me, or everyone else.”

She regrets her phrasing; it doesn’t seem like much of a bargain, and reminds her why she’s in this position in the first place. She is not not clever or sophisticated or a great beauty, and her only real asset is a destroyed Keep in a contested territory, cold and barren and entirely unwelcoming of Lannisters.

Perhaps she ought to have gone with her first plan, to remind him that she only needs to have a word with Lord Tywin and Shae won’t be going near them (or, likely, anywhere at all), ever again. But her words that day were more true than she’d realized. There are any number of women in the world, and Shae is a symptom, not the root of the problem. She needs Lord Tyrion to make this decision.

She straightens her shoulders and tries to look more confident than she feels. “So. Will Shae be going North?”

He looks to be holding his breath; she certainly is. “No, my lady. You’re right; you are my wife, and I have an example to set for our son.”

It’s a start.

~*~

After the...agreement Sansa comes to with her husband, it isn’t a surprise for her to receive an invitation to dine with him in his chambers. Well, to dine with him and  _ others _ . She trusts, given the tone of their last conversation, that the others will not include Shae. 

Wynn helps Sansa into a looser gown, her body beginning to change as it makes room for the child inside her. She’ll need much looser gowns by the time this is done, and she wonders how that will work when packing her bags for Winterfell. She will need a full wardrobe for after she has given birth, but she’ll also need an ever forgiving wardrobe in order to accommodate her growing stomach.

Forget needing a carriage to carry her, they’re going to need a second for all of her clothes.

Wynn accompanies Sansa to Lord Tyrion’s chambers, and gives Sansa a moment to take a deep breath before knocking and opening the door.

Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime, and Lady Brienne all rise when Sansa enters and, after a nudge from Tyrion, Bronn rises as well. 

“Good evening, my lords, my lady,” Sansa hesitates over Bronn. “Ser.”

Bronn grins. “Good evening. I hear I have you and whatever you’ve got in your stomach to thank for finally getting us out of the capital.”

Lord Tyrion sighs. “I apologize in advance for his behavior, both now and when we’re traveling.”

Podrick hurries over to pull Sansa’s chair out for her and she smiles. “Thank you, Podrick.” She looks over at Bronn. “I too am thankful for the child I’m carrying, and I trust you’ll do everything in your power to protect his or her life.”

“I do what I’m paid to do,” Bronn says.

Sell-swords, Sansa thinks with disgust. She keeps the smile on her face. “I trust you are well, Lady Brienne?”

“I am,” the woman says, though she’s still uncomfortable as Podrick and Wynn begin to serve them; uncomfortable in a way only those used to serving themselves can be.

Having checked in with everyone she cares to, Sansa turns her attention to more important matters. “I have been thinking of what we must bring with us to Winterfell.”

“A cart of lemons?” Ser Jaime suggests, a bit of mockery in his tone. “For all the cakes you will need.”

Sansa ignores him. “Is there any word on what remains of the Keep after Theon Greyjoy’s betrayal?”

“Very little,” Lord Tyrion says. “He killed all the ravens so no one could send word of what he’d done, but there are other ways to send a message. Not any fast ones, though, so reports are sparse.”

“So we’ll have to bring new ravens with us,” Sansa says.

“I suppose we shall. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It is a good thing we are a team then,” Sansa says.

She smiles at the discomfort of everyone at the table and fills her mouth with a bite of the roast quail. She will miss the food of King’s Landing while they’re on the road, but at least she’ll have the food of home to look forward to.

“You’ll also need guards,” Ser Jaime says, appearing to be helpful. Sansa is immediately wary.

“We’re bringing a small contingent of Lannister men,” she says. “With no sigils in case we encounter loyal Northerners during our trip. Disloyal Northerners, rather.”

“So many men,” Ser Jaime says. “It’s a good thing my brother is a not a jealous man. But I was thinking a more personal guard for you, sister.”

Sansa narrows her eyes.

“I, of course, cannot go, because the North does not hold me in very high regard, but I know someone willing and even eager to accompany you.”

“Oh?” Sansa asks. She’s not sure she trusts any friend of Ser Jaime’s.

Ser Jaime looks across the table at Lady Brienne. “A Lannister always pays his debts. And,” he looks slightly discomfited, “this Lannister is committed to keeping his word. You may fulfill our bargain with Lady Catelyn and return Sansa to Winterfell.”

Sansa isn’t sure who is more shocked, her or Lady Brienne. 

“Ser,” Lady Brienne begins, overwhelmed. She settles for a heartfelt, “ _ Thank you _ . I will keep our word.”

“I’ll have to arrange for armor to be made for you,” Ser Jaime says, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Sansa expects he doesn’t often receive gratitude, mostly because he doesn’t often do anything to deserve it. “You can’t go traipsing around the North in  _ that _ . And you’ll need a good sword. I’m sure you’ll have many occasions to use it.”

“I will serve you honorably and faithfully,” Lady Brienne promises Sansa. “No harm will come to you as I fight by your side.”

“You’re giving me indigestion,” Bronn says.

Lady Brienne glares at him. “Some people have honor. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two on this journey.”

“People with honor are the first to die,” Bronn says. “I learned that lesson long ago. I don’t need to relearn it.”

Sansa thinks of her father and brother, and she cannot deny what Bronn says. Still, there is no need for this talk at the table. “Lord Tyrion, how fare your preparations for the trip?”

“It has been quite a relief to hand over my duties as Master of Coin. A rather thankless position.”

“But useful,” Sansa says. “I’m sure we’ll need your knowledge of finances in Winterfell. It has been much damaged by the war.”

“You seem to know a lot about Winterfell for someone who’s been living in the capital,” Bronn says.

Sansa doesn’t miss the sharp looks directed his way or the curious ones that come hers. She meets his gaze evenly. “The King finds it prudent to keep me advised of the state of my former home.”

Now the table is uncomfortably quiet. Even Bronn has the shame to look away from her after the reminder of Joffrey’s treatment of her.

“I’m afraid the King will still be on his hunt when we leave,” Lord Tyrion says. “Such a shame that I won’t be able to say my goodbyes personally to my dear nephew. I’ll have to find some other way to convey them.”

“I’ll convey them for you,” Ser Jaime says. “That way there’s less of a chance that his next hunt is to hunt  _ you _ down.”

Lord Tyrion waves a hand. “Fine, fine. Spoil my fun. Podrick, another glass of wine.”

“Forget a cart of lemons,” Ser Jaime says. “You’re going to need two carts of wine to keep your appetite whetted.”

“It is the most sacred thing one can put in their body,” Lord Tyrion says.

Sansa waves Podrick off when he goes to fill her glass as well. “My septa taught me that wine and pregnancy do not mix.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says. “Suddenly our nephew makes so much more sense.”

Sansa resigns herself to a dinner where nothing productive will happen.

~*~

They are due to leave in three days, and Wynn assists Sansa with packing her bags. As she predicted, she has more clothes than probably anyone else in the company, but she doubts anyone will cross her on it. As soon as the first swell of the child was visible, people started giving her a wider berth, wary of her as if she might lose her temper at any moment.

It is a strange sort of power being pregnant gives you.

Wynn has just finished packing Sansa’s formal wear when it occurs to Sansa that she hasn’t spoken to  _ Wynn _ of their plans to depart the capital. Yes, Sansa is going, yes Wynn has helped her prepare but Sansa doesn't know if Wynn is coming. She probably isn’t. Didn’t Lord Varys say the poor girl just fled the North? Sansa cannot drag her back there.

And now that Sansa has Lady Brienne accompanying her, she won’t be the only woman in the party if Wynn stays behind.

Sansa clears her throat.

“Yes, m’lady?” Wynn asks.

“I fear I’ve been remiss in bringing something up with you,” Sansa says. “Please, sit.”

Wynn cautiously sits on the edge of a chair. 

“You have been a good handmaiden,” Sansa says. “Better than I could have hoped. You have served me well and served me faithfully.”

“M’lady?” Wynn asks, worried.

“But you agreed to be my handmaiden thinking I was going to live in the capital. I’m going North now, and Lord Varys told me, when he recommended your services, that you were seeking refuge from the North. I cannot, in good conscience, force you back to a place that has brought you pain.” Selfishly, she wants to. She wants to keep as many friends by her side as she can. But - “Therefore, upon the the day I leave for Winterfell, I will release you from my service.”

“M’lady!” Wynn gasps, looking more upset than Sansa would’ve expected. “Is this - is this an order or an offer?”

“Pardon?” Sansa asks.

“If I have truly served you well, I would like to continue serving you,” Wynn says. “If m’lady pleases, of course.”

“I had not thought you’d wish to return to the North,” Sansa says.

“The North is my home,” Wynn says, “and I left because I was scared, but if I am at your side then nothing in the North will harm me. Your are Lady Lannister by marriage, but you are Lady Stark by birth, and the North remembers.”

Sansa takes an instinctual step forward. “Hush,” she says even though they are alone in Sansa’s room. The capital has ears everywhere. “We aren’t safe until we’re home.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Wynn says.

“Very well. It seems as if you have some packing of your own to do. And I have a few more goodbyes to make. I doubt either of the next two people I am to see will surprise me by coming North.”

~*~

Lord Varys is in his office when Sansa arrives, and she is reminded of when she came to him when she first thought she was pregnant. She has come a long way since then, no longer alone, no longer as afraid. 

“My dear,” Lord Varys says when she enters. “I hadn’t thought you’d have much free time. Your departure is as imminent as it is mysterious.”

In order to provide them with as much protection as possible, no Lannister sigils will decorate any of their armor or belongings, and no one knows exactly where the procession is going. The capital knows that Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa are leaving, but where exactly they’re going is fuel for the gossips. 

Sansa has heard that they’re going to try to steal Casterly Rock from Ser Jaime, that they’ve been banished across the Narrow Sea, and even that they’re being sent to Dorne to watch over the Princess Myrcella. No one has come close to the truth.

Lord Varys, she’s sure, knows.

“I have made time for the important things,” Sansa says. “You have been a good friend to me, and I don’t want to leave without a goodbye. Also an apology. I’m afraid Wynn’s services are irreplaceable to me, and she’ll be leaving the capital with us.”

“I’m glad it was a good match,” Lord Varys says. “And I’m glad you will have female company on your trip. It seems a small crowd of women for so many men.”

“I could not ask for two better women to accompany me,” Sansa says. 

“I wish you the best on your journey,” Lord Varys says and Sansa believes he means it. “Your life has not been easy, child, and I am sure there are yet more challenges ahead of you, but you are strong enough to meet every one of them and wise enough to seek help against those that are stronger than you.”

“Kind words,” Sansa tells him. “I thank you for them. Once we’re settled we’ll send word to you. I trust that our communication will be no less important than it is now, though it might be more infrequent.”

“I will be honored to be one of your correspondents,” Lord Varys says.

She finishes her goodbyes with Lord Varys and then goes to the royal chambers. She suspects this will be the most difficult goodbye for her to make, and she’s glad the plans to leave are already in place so she cannot abandon them no matter how powerful Margaery’s persuasion. 

The Queen is in her room, impatiently waving off her handmaidens. “I’m with child, not an invalid,” Margaery snaps. “I do not need you  _ hovering _ .”

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, curtseying deep to hide her smile. She has heard that pregnancy can cause mood swings, but she has been too busy recently to allow her pregnancy to affect her. She fears what a long trip with no distractions will do to her. But that is a fear for another time.

“Ah, aunt,” Margaery greets, because she possesses a strange sense of humor.

“Niece,” Sansa returns with a smile. “How fares the child in your belly?”

“How fares yours?” Margaery counters. “I had so looked forward to us being pregnant and miserable together. Everyone expects me to still be happy. I am growing fat and apparently so fragile I cannot venture into the city. How is that supposed to make me happy?”

“I am not so large that I cannot kneel at the godswood so I cannot complain yet,” Sansa says.

“You never complain,” Margaery points out. “But enough whining. I will not have your company now, and our children will not be raised together as I had hoped either.”

“It is necessary,” Sansa says, carefully, because while Lord Tywin has plans for them, Margaery outranks him as Queen. If she really wanted to, she could order Sansa to stay. “Would you like to be Queen of a fractured realm?”

“I know why you must go,” Margaery says, because she is one of the few who knows where they’re going. Not even Lord Tywin tried to keep this particular secret from the Queen. “I just wish it could be done without you.”

“It cannot,” Sansa says, “but if I can help bring peace to your kingdom then maybe one day our children might be married to one another.”

“Yes,” Margaery says. “Have a son to inherit your lands and make sure to have several daughters and save one of them for me. You shall have a princess and perhaps, one day, even a queen.”

“I would be honored,” Sansa says, “but first let me make it through this pregnancy before I begin to plan others.”

“You shouldn’t travel such a long distance in your condition. All the bouncing cannot be good for your child.”

“And staying here would be?” Sansa asks. She risks a bold statement. “The King cannot spend the whole next year hunting.”

“If only he would,” Margaery mutters. “Hopefully he’ll have the same fear of pregnant women as most men have and want nothing to do with me when he returns and my belly is even more swollen.” Margaery sighs. “I wish I did not have to lose you and my grandmother and my brother. I shall be quite alone soon.”

“The people adore you,” Sansa reminds her. “And Lord Tywin will protect you.”

“He’ll protect the prince or princess inside my body,” Margaery says. She reaches a hand out to clasp Sansa’s. “Please continue to pray for me. I want a son. I never want to do what I did again.”

Sansa grips Margaery’s hand just as tight as hers is gripped. “I will pray for a strong, healthy son for you. A King worthy of the throne.”

“Thank you,” Margaery says. “Anything you need when you’re there, let me know. Anything in my power to give you as Queen will be yours. We must look out for each other.”

“We will,” Sansa promises. “Send word when you’ve birthed your child, and we’ll celebrate for you.”

Margaery pulls her in for a not-so-unexpected hug. “I shall miss you dearly.”

“And I you.”

~*~

There is no one to see them off when they leave. 

They have already said their goodbyes, and they leave in the middle of night, like they’re criminals escaping the capital. 

The escape part is right at least.

Sansa allows herself to be placed in the carriage, planning to sleep for the first leg of their journey. She doesn’t intend to be cooped up in the carriage for the entire journey, however. There will be a point where it’s dangerous to ride, where it’s too much hassle to argue that she should be allowed a horse, but that time has not yet come.

Wynn shares the carriage with her, and Sansa reaches between them to take Wynn’s hand as the carriage begins to rumble down the path.

“Home,” Sansa says. “We’re going home.”


End file.
